


Boy Scout Dropout

by flightyrock



Series: Scout ‘verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (the child abuse implications aren't strictly true), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Being Lost, Blood, Boredom, Boy Scouts, Broken Bones, Bugs, Camping, College, Coming of Age, Cute Kids, Cuts, Dark, Death of a loved one, Derogatory name calling, Dissociation, Dogs, Don’t copy to another site, Eavesdropping, Fear, Fluff, Forests, Gen, Getting Stuck, Grief, Guilt, Gun Violence, Happy Ending, House Plants, Hugs, Hunters, Hunting, IV - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kindness from strangers, Major Character Injury, Medical stuff, Memories, Name Calling, Needles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Peter Needs a Hug, Peter Parker vs. Himself, Pickpocketing, Police Brutality, Police brutality against a minor, Reunions, Running Away, SMBB 2018, Self-Hatred, Sleep Deprivation, Small Towns, Stitches, Survival, Swearing, The World vs. Peter Parker, Unreliable Narrator, Way Too Much Crying, alone in the woods, amateur first aid, antics, bad field trips, blisters, giant insects, graphic depiction of murder, harmful self-talk, insect guts, kids being kids, lots of blood, lying, peter and field trips do not mix, peter loves doggos, platonically sharing a tent, public school, read; the officer threatens peter with a handgun and tackles him when he doesn't 'comply', rebreaking a bone (mentioned), self-harm (hair pulling), snap circuits, suicide ideation, temporary vision imparement, weed use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-04 03:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightyrock/pseuds/flightyrock
Summary: "'What did you do?!' Mr. Stark screamed.  'You’re a danger to yourself and others!'Peter needed to get out.  Get away.  Far away.  Far away from his mistakes.  The only way to escape the voices was to outrun them.He couldn’t stay here, not for another minute.  No time for feeling, just action.  So he moved."~~When Peter’s stranded in the middle of nowhere after a training exercise gone wrong, it’s up to him to shoulder the consequences of his choices.  Alone.





	1. Internship Start!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission for the Spider-Man Big Bang. I'm so excited to share this with all of you! It's my first ever bang, and the longest piece I've ever written. It will feature lovely art by the awesome oh-stars. 
> 
> Before we get started, I have a few thank-yous. This monster was beta-d by the wonderful simbajean, thank you so much! (I rewrote huge swaths of this at the last minute, there may be SPAG errors, which are entirely my own. Feel free to yell at me in the comments!) Also, thank you to my amazing story coaches, oh-stars, simbajean, and captain-ameriyeah, and all the wonderful people on the SMBB slack, for chatting and sprinting and advice. Without you all, this fic would not exist beyond a couple paragraphs buried in my 'ideas' folder. Thank you!
> 
> Additionally, some of these characters belong to Marvel, and I'm using them for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> I'll go over posting schedule and warnings in the end notes. Please mind the warnings in the tags, but otherwise, here we go!!
> 
> ****EDIT: at the suggestion of several readers, I’ve modified the tags. This story used to be tagged for major character death, but this was confusing, since it complies with canon and happened in the past. Please check the beginning of each chapter for warnings!

Breathe in, breathe out.  Jitters started in his core, shaking out until he was flapping his arms and fingers.  He rolled his shoulders back, then his head, then took a shaky breath.

All of Peter’s training had led him to this moment.  

“Keep up, Spidey!” Hawkeye called, jogging past him to take the middle position.

“Oh, uh, right!  Yep!” Peter called back, just a beat too slow.  

Well, all those nights on patrol and tackling weapon-wielding thugs behind his iron-clad genius of a mentor hadn’t led him to this moment, specifically.  Namely, embarrassingly sweaty, several miles into a run through the woods North of the Avenger’s upstate facility. Doing his best to keep his nerves under wraps while running after Cap for the purposes of a training exercise.  Cap, as in _Captain America_ , one of the most awesome people in existence.  ( _Way_ more awesome in person than those outdated PSA videos that had been torturing kids his age since Middle School, by the way.)  No big deal. His pathetic existence might actually mean something if he can keep from screwing this up.

‘This’ being a group training exercise.  His first one as an official Avengers’ Junior Trainee.

~

“Junior Trainee?” Peter asked, confused, trying to catch Mr. Stark’s eye as the man fiddled with settings on his phone, as the two sat in the back of one of the billionaire's chauffeured town cars.  

“Yeah, you know,” Mr. Stark gestured vaguely with his free hand, “you’re kind of like Shrinky Dinks, but since you’re not old enough to vote, you get the less fun version.  The kind that comes with more, you know, _training_.  Plus permission slips for your frankly terrifying Aunt and waivers and legal releases for me.”

Peter tried to sneak a peek of Mr. Stark’s device, but the man just raised an eyebrow and turned his torso away.  “You mean that Ant guy? Wasn’t he in jail, after the thing in Germany?”

“ _Was_ is the key word there, Underoos,” the man said, taking his eyes off the screen for a moment.  “Got out as part of the deal I struck up with Cap, after we convinced him to surrender at the airport.  Same game with the Winged Wonder, Katniss, and Vision’s favorite Sokovian Wonder Twin. Great work there kid, by the way.  Don’t want that big head of yours to inflate even more, but if you hadn’t tried to talk it out with Cap, I don’t want to know how that would have ended.  Could have done with less collateral damage, though. I may be a billionaire, but I only have so much in my ‘Pay off Foreign Governments’ allowance. After that’s gone, Pepper starts drawing from my ‘R&R’ account, which is _not_ pretty, fyi.”

Peter winced.  Spiderman and the guy from Brooklyn had caused some real damage in their ‘talk,’ especially when the Falcon joined their skirmish and the two men had tag-teamed him.  Peter getting his butt kicked had made Mr. Stark hesitate enough to listen, and Peter’s age had shocked Captain America enough to call off his team. Peter had stood awkwardly with the other members of his team, shifting uncomfortably under the eyes of a bunch of awesome people that were probably wondering where his mother was, while his mentor and the First Avenger hashed it out.  

Peter wasn’t sure exactly what happened after that.  Captain America was quietly pardoned, and he worked with Mr. Stark to amend the Accords.  Both men were subdued during the press conference, matching dark circles under their eyes.  It reminded him of how Mr. Stark was on the ride back home from Germany, the last time he saw him.  Quiet. Still. It was unnerving, and then Peter didn’t see him again for a _long_ time.  After he pestered Happy for a while, the man finally admitted that Mr. Stark had learned the identity of his parents’ killer during negotiations, and would probably be unavailable for the foreseeable future, _are you happy now? Stop texting me, Parker._  

Peter understood.  He knew what it was like to lose a parent, to have the awful privilege of knowing just who took that precious person away.  What you were capable of, if you chose to overlook, just for a second, that they were a person, too. If you gave into your rage, succumbed to your loss.

“Anyway,” Mr. Stark’s voice snapped Peter back to the present, “After your little stunt with the plane hijacker, the bird guy, what’s-his-face...”

“Toomes,” Peter supplied, squirming guiltily at the thought of Liz’s face when she told him her family was moving away.

“Yeah, him.  After that, I realized you needed something extra to keep your skinny butt out of trouble.  I was just going to give you an upgraded suit, which is _awesome_ by the way, announce you to the world as the newest Avenger, and set you loose, but a certain WWII era tactical genius pointed out that that was what got you dragged into the fire the first time, literally.  So we’re trying something new. You’re going to be our guinea pig. If this works out, we can help out a bunch of other OP teenage vigilantes running wild.” The man grabbed a briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers.  “Hence, permission slips, waivers, and a meeting over Thai with Aunt Hottie. Now come on, she’s probably already seated. You took your sweet time getting out those school doors. What were you doing in there, Pete? Getting, ah, _chatty_ by the lockers?”  The man smirked, and waggled his eyebrows salaciously.

“Wait, what!?  Why would you think--no!  I told you, I had decathlon practice!” Peter sputtered, face hot.

“Whatever you say, kid.”

~

So, yeah. Over a lot of dinners that Mr. Stark paid for, the adults hashed out the details of what amounted to the superhero version of an internship, a real, fully-informed one this time.  A really _good_ internship.  Personal training, team exercises, hands-on mentorship,  a small stipend, access to laboratory space, and incentives to stay in school.  (“You’re not becoming an Avenger without a degree, kid. New rule, effective now.  We need to improve our ratio of degree holders to non-degree holders somehow, the press always has a field day with that.”)  Plus scholarship opportunities!

So it really wasn’t a lie when he put down “Internship with Stark Industries” on the working papers he needed to submit to the high school office  It’s also what he told his teachers, when he asked for the work he’d be missing on Thursday and Friday to attend a conference with his new employer.

Everyone whose name didn’t rhyme with “Dash” seemed genuinely excited for him.  Some of his teachers got kind of dewy-eyed at the thought that they were partially responsible for a student of theirs securing a position with such a prestigious company.  His classmates bombarded him with questions he sometimes had the answers to. (When he didn’t, he could just say “it’s classified,” which was even _cooler_.)  Even MJ cracked a smile while she punched him in the shoulder in what he thought was congratulations, but it could have also just been because it was there.

But no one, not even Peter, was as excited as Ned.

~

Peter yanked the earbuds out of his ears, desperate to silence the horrible screeching straining the small speakers.

When the figure on the video shut his mouth, Peter cautiously put one ear back in.  “Dude. Are you cool?”

“Yeah, I’m cool, I’m-wait, one more, OH MY G-”

Peter yanked the bud out again, grinning so hard his face hurt at the silent image of Ned losing his shit in the most satisfying way possible.  After everything had been finalized, the first thing he did after he settled down at his desk was video call Ned. It was one thing to know his best friend would be excited, but another to experience it firsthand.

When it looked like Ned had settled into rambling, Peter cautiously replaced the bud.

“--the coolest thing EVER.  Like, I thought that when I saw your suit the first time, _that_ was the most awesome moment of my life.  That was it. I had peaked. Nothing could ever be cooler.  You went to Germany, and actually met Captain America, and the Black Widow!  Which was AMAZING. But _then_ I was your guy in the chair, and I was like, NOPE.  I was wrong, THIS is the coolest thing ever! During all those weeks of detention after homecoming, all I could think about how awesome it was that I helped you beat the Vulture guy.  It wasn’t cool that you got hurt, of course, or that you got in trouble with Mr. Stark,” Ned reassured him, “but the other parts? Awesome! And now you, Spider-Man, is a freaking AVENGER!  This is the _coolest_ moment of my life, next time I see you, when I hug you, I’m hugging an Avenger!”  His eyes widened. “I’m talking to an Avenger RIGHT NOW!! An Avenger knows our secret handshake, holy shit, this is The. Coolest. _Moment_ of--”

“Ned!” Peter laughed.  “Slow down, I’m still not an Avenger!  I’m just being trained by them--”

“Same difference!” Ned grinned, not at all deterred.

“No!” Peter protested.  “I’m trying to become one of them, but I’ve got to prove myself first.  Gotta do everything Mr. Stark says this time, to a T. No more, uh, ‘helping,’” he bent his fingers into air quotes, “aside from friendly neighborhood stuff.  I get to keep Karen, but I’ve got to train up to use the higher capabilities of my suit. And the Avengers will take turns training me with a mix of team combat scenarios and personal training sessions.”

Ned pressed his hands to his mouth, and Peter yanked the earbud out again just in time.

~

MJ was a lot cooler about the whole thing.  He kind of suspected she knew a lot more than she let on, but she didn’t tell him outright.  Just taught him a bunch of neat exercises to help calm his nerves so he didn’t have to worry so much about making a complete idiot out of himself and embarrassing her by association, or something.  It’s why he was taking deep breaths now. Well, that, and Captain America was apparently _really fast_.  So was Hawkeye, which surprised Peter for some reason.  Though Hawkeye kept tripping over roots and swearing.

“I’m farsighted,” he shrugged, as Peter came up beside him, close enough to see little flesh-colored wires curling around his ear.  Were those what he thought they were? He squinted at them. Boy, were they _tiny_.  He wondered if Mr. Stark had a hand in their design, if he might be able to teach Peter how to--

One moment Peter was daydreaming about fancy hearing-aides, the next he was pulling up his mast to spit out the face full of dirt that snuck under his mask when he face-planted.  He glared back and the root his toes had caught. That little voice in the back of his head that reminded him uncomfortably of Flash sneered, _Nice going, Penis_.  He glanced around.  Maybe no one had noticed.

“Alright there, Spider-Man?”  Cap called over his shoulder.

Shit.

“Oh yeah, I’m good!  Um, I mean, yes sir! Everything’s good to go, uh, sir.  I mean, I am. Good to go, that is. Uninjured,” Peter babbled, glad that the mask covered his wince after he finally shut his mouth, and resisted the urge to face palm.  He was the _worst_.  

~

So, here’s the thing.  After he’d officially started the new internship, he’d had a couple of personal training sessions. Only a couple, because his teachers kept canceling.  

“Sorry, Queens, I’ve got to cancel this week,” Captain freaking _America_ said when Peter picked up the call with the unfamiliar number.  “Something, ah, came up.”

“Oh, yeah, sure, of course!” Peter had almost yelled.  Not cool. “I mean, that’s okay, I understand. I’m sure it’s super important, so good luck!”

He thought he heard the man mutter “you have no idea” before he hung up without a goodbye.

Same deal with the Falcon.

“Sorry, Spider Kid.  Totally forgot, I’m helping Cap with a thing.  So is Nat, ah, the Widow, so your session with her is cancelled, too.  Just keep up with your PT. I’ll know if you haven’t!”

“Of course, good luck!” Peter said, trying to keep a grin on his face as the line abruptly went silent.  He understood. He did. But being ignored by people over the phone was a bit too familiar.

And it didn’t help that the sessions that weren’t canceled were stopped early, more often than not.

The Captain came back from wherever he was with dark circles under his eyes and a pulsing vein in his temple.  He didn’t look like he wanted to be there, and he was eyeing Peter with something that looked almost like anger, or contempt.  It made Peter’s skin prickle, while he was running laps and doing circuits. Peter didn’t know what happened, but when he got through his 200 push-up set and finally looked up, his teacher was gone.  

“Peter, Captain Rogers has cancelled the remainder of your session.  You are free to use the gym as you wish, or I can call for a car,” Friday cooly informed him.

Peter sighed, his shoulder slumped, trying not to feel like such a failure.  It didn’t work.

“Think I’m just gonna go home, Friday.”

~

“Spider-Man?  Peter!” Cap yelled in his Most Captain America voice, still over his shoulder.  How was he not tripping over all these roots? Did he have eyes in the back of his head?  Peter had Spider Senses and even _he_ was tripping over the obstacles that riddled the forest floor.  “Are you listening to me?”

“Oh, um, yep!  Sure thing, Cap, loud and clear!” Peter shot off an impromptu salute.  He had most definitely _not_ been listening.  But he wasn’t about to admit that.

Hawkeye snorted.  

Peter could practically feel the disapproval radiating from the Captain.  He really wasn’t off to a good start. Was it too much to ask for everything to go _right_ for once?  He just wanted to impress his instructors.  He knew he had the skills. When no one else was watching, at least.  It really sucked that his first time he’d be training with his heroes would be in an environment he wasn’t familiar with.  No buildings, just trees and rocks and dirt.

~

But, according to Cap, that was the point.  Apparently _everyone_ needed more practice in battlefields without the convenience of closely-spaced buildings.  (Except the Captain himself, who had plenty of ground combat experience in European forests when he was hunting down Nazis with the Allies.)

“We can’t count on enemies of Earth to keep attacking urban centers,” Steve had explained that morning over coffee and bagels, his arms crossed in annoyance with all the protests.  He jutted his chin out. “Anyone who has a problem with it can talk about it with me, _outside_ ,” he bit out, glaring at Tony’s raised hand.  If Peter wasn’t one of the people on the wrong end of the Disapproving Stare he definitely would have snorted when Tony tossed a bagel to him not unlike the man would throw his shield, with an “Eat up, Cap.  Offense intended, you get kind of pissy when you’re low on carbs.”

~

Peter sighed.  He honestly didn’t know what he was doing here, running between trees behind his childhood heroes.  He was either the luckiest or unluckiest kid in existence. Please, just let him get through today. He didn’t even need to impress anyone, not really.  He just needed to survive this without screwing up so royally he’d be asked to please not come back, after that time in Boy Scouts when he’d--

Karen didn’t even have time to sound a warning before something hit him square in the back.  Once again, he was sliding face first along the ground. But harder this time. He groaned, or would have, if all the air hadn’t been knocked out of his lungs.

“Look alive, Spider-Man!” Cap yelled over the clang of metal.  

_Crap!_

Panic jolted through his veins, tingled in the tips of his fingers.  Or maybe that was an after affect of the thing he was hit with. Kind of felt like a projectile.  They were under attack!

Something whizzed past his shoulder, and he rolled in the opposite direction, at the insistence of his spider sense.  No time to think.

He stopped abruptly when his back hit something hard and rough and kind of curvy.  A tree, probably. He used it to pull himself to sitting, now able to gasp a few breaths with difficulty.  How did it all go so wrong so quickly?

“Karen, what’s going on?”  Peter gasped, inching his way up to standing, pushing back against the trunk, paying little attention as he scraped his back in the process.  Karen wasn’t answering.

“Karen?”  He pressed one hand to his right ear, hoping that he just was having trouble hearing over all the explosions.  But the AI remained silent. She must have been damaged during that initial impact! This was bad. If Karen was down, that meant most of his suit functions were down.  That included his communicators. That meant no help from his team. Worse, it meant his team couldn’t call him in for help, or direct him.

“Shit,” he moaned.  He couldn’t even remember the first part of their plan, let alone the end!  Not that missions always went to plan, but that’s why they had communicators; so they could talk when things didn’t go the way they thought.  Losing 90% of his suit functionality hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Thankfully, he had talked Mr. Stark into keeping a couple of manual settings on his web shooters, and the man had actually listened.  He even said that was smart thinking, even though he was confident his tech wouldn’t fail. And he was right, for the most part. Except for now, of course.  No time like the present to test them out.

“Okay, okay,” Peter muttered thinking quickly.  He pulsed once sharply in the center of his palm, casting a line into the canopy of a nearby deciduous.  If he couldn’t hear what was going on, maybe he could see it.

From what Peter understood, the premise of this exercise was kind of like flag football.  Except there was only one flag per team. And there was no ball. And more shooting each other.  They were randomly divided into two teams of three; Peter with Captain American and Hawkeye, versus Mr. Stark, Black Widow, and the Hulk.  Bruce wasn’t exactly happy about being called in for a “kid’s game,” but he agreed to make the numbers even, and also so that Tony would stop asking.

Not that the Hulk made anything even.

The big guy roared gleefully as he was released.  He wished he had time to geek out properly, because the Hulk was _awesome_.  Also big.  Peter wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with him without Friday’s help.

He watched from above as Cap charged the Hulk without hesitation, occupying his full attention.  Distracting him from his teammates.

Peter had no idea where Hawkeye was; it was pretty awesome how fast the clumsy guy could disappear when he put his mind to it.  What was he supposed to do now? He really didn’t have a shot against the Hulk, and besides, Captain America was being awesome as always, ducking and weaving beneath large fists as the Hulk grunted and grabbed, huffing.  

Peter couldn’t even begin to guess who had the flag.  Finding it might be a good way to redeem himself for his early takedown.

He’d start with what he knew.  On his team, Clint had it. Not for any particular tactical reason.  The two men had immediately flipped a coin to decide which of them should take it while Peter tried not to be hurt that he wasn’t even being considered.  They didn’t talk about it at all, like Peter wasn’t even there. Like his thoughts didn’t matter. It was totally understandable, him being new and all, but the hurt was still there, not unlike being picked last for a game of dodgeball.

He had no idea who could have it on the other team.  If Team Iron Man had gone for strategy over luck of the draw, Peter would guess that Mr. Stark had it hidden beneath his armor.  Which was probably cheating, but Mr. Stark wasn’t exactly all about playing fair. But Widow had more practice in up close and personal combat, so she would be a great choice.  And the Hulk was just so strong…

What should he do!?  Watching two of his favorite heroes duke it out was great and all, but he wasn’t being useful at all, failing to figure out who had the flag or even anyone he could attack.  Where were the other two? Where was--

There was a sharp crack, and his stomach lurched towards his throat as he fruitlessly scrambled for purchase.  Quickly, he shot out a line, and stuck to the side of another tree, catching a glimpse of black and a flash of red.  Widow, then.

He broke into a cold sweat; his spider sense didn’t detect her at all!  He was so dead.

His mind raced; what to do?  He couldn’t fight in the trees; there were too many branches in the way.  But if he got on the ground, he was dead for sure. Natasha had black belts in everything, plus a few disciplines that she made up herself.  All Peter had was YouTube and action movies.

“Oh man, oh man,” he muttered, flailing a bit, but managing to land well on the other tree.  He didn’t stay, and launched himself straight into another, wincing as a bunch of the tiny twigs snapped off, scraping him as he got closer to the trunk.  Man, that stung. But he couldn’t stop; not longer than it took to find his next destination. But even that might be too long. Had to rely on instinct, throw the other off her game.  Shock her.

“When I was a young man, I loved to play pinball,” he sang aloud, feeling his shoulders loosen as he fell into a rhythm.  Then he forgot the words, and started to whistle the rest.

Now that he was moving, it was time to see if he could also track the movements of his—there!  He shot out a web at a flash of red, but missed. Seeing her was good first step, though, he could work with this!

But something else caught his eye.  Someone else was in a tree? Oh, Hawkeye!  Maybe if he zigzagged in that general direction, his teammate might be able to help him out.  Team up against the Widow.

He angled in that general direction, but saw a frantic neck slashing motion.

He froze.  What? Stop?  What should he stop doing?  He stopped moving his limbs, but he _couldn’t_ stop his momentum.  Shoot, and now he lost sight of--

“Ahh!” he screamed.  The Black Widow was right in front of him.

“Boo,” she smirked, and Peter unstuck from the tree involuntarily in alarm.

He flailed his arms as he fell, and was able to catch a branch lower down by the very tips of his fingers.

The world-class assassin didn’t even spare him a passing glance before leaping toward the tree where Peter had seen Hawkeye.  

Wait, didn’t Cap say something about Hawkeye staying out of sight?  Oh no, he had led her straight to him! Way to go, Parker. Without his comm, he was next to useless.  At least there were only three enemies to keep track of. He couldn’t really help Hawkeye with the Widow.  They were both highly skilled in hand to hand combat; Peter would just be in the way. But there were two other enemies back with Cap, maybe he could help even the score there.

So he straightened his mark and swung over, determined to be useful this time.

Now that he was listening for it, he heard the Hulk roaring to the East, as well as the sound of repulsor fire.  Shoot, he left Captain America all alone!

As he thwipped across the partial clearing, wait, what?  There wasn’t a clearing for miles. At least there wasn’t at first.

It didn’t take long to figure out; Hulk was gleefully pushing off of the trees, damaging big ones and snapping big branches off the smaller ones, hurling them towards where a red, white, and blue shield was weaving through the trees, dodging wood pieces and repulsor fire alike.

Peter was forced to the ground as the trees thinned too severely.  Awkwardly sized gaps; every spider’s weakness.

He panted as he ran up behind the Hulk.  He figured the best he could do at this point was distract one of them, and without the suit, it couldn’t be Mr. Stark.  He couldn’t get high enough.

It was probably Mr. Stark that had disabled the suit in the first place; that first hit he took was probably an EMP or something similar.  Only Mr. Stark could come up with something like that on the fly. Or maybe he planned it, in case he had to face off against Spider-Man. Peter was torn between fury at the low blow and admiration of its genius.

So Hulk was really the only choice, here.  As much as it pained him. The thing about Hulk was the guy was all but indestructible.  The best he could hope to do was distract him. Honestly, if he could just get him to stop throwing trees at Cap, it would give the man a fighting chance against Iron Man.

But how was Peter going to distract the Hulk?  He couldn’t exactly shoot out a line from behind; the big guy probably wouldn’t even feel it.  He could block his eyes, but that wouldn’t last long. Hmmm. He thought about that slick move the Widow pulled on him earlier; he knew he could sneak up behind the Hulk, easily.  Stealth was easy when you could stick to vertical surfaces. Well, if he could manage to be quiet. It would be hard with the bark, but he might as well give it a shot. Dropping on the big guy’s shoulders should do the trick.  

Peter darted around trees, climbing up one then jumping softly above Hulk’s head to a branch in the guy’s path.  Now all there was left to do was wait as he wandered closer, plucking branches like a child would pluck dandelions.

He waited patiently, as the man drew close.  Closer. Closer still. Almost there.

Now!

He dropped.  There was a roar.  His spider sense screamed as his chest and ears bloomed with pain.

And everything went white.

 

<<>>

 

His vision spotted red and white as the white noise slowly subsided.  He gasped for air, breaths, chest heaving and burning as he struggled to bring in air.  He was cursing, a steady stream of sound helping his ears find their way back to halfway functional.  Or was that someone else?

“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh _God_ ,” a voice was muttering frantically.  Peter coughed, painfully, then drew in a breath. Finally.  Sweet oxygen. Oh man, that was a relief.

The spots disappeared with every breath he took, and he eventually managed to haul himself into a sitting position.  It took way too much effort. But despite the pain in his chest, he thought he was actually okay. Just had the wind knocked out of him but good.  He wiggled his fingers and toes. He was Peter Parker. He could feel everything, and it didn’t hurt that much. Yeah, he was okay.

He wasn’t sure the same could be said for a frantic (and half naked) Dr. Banner, who was scrambling backwards from Peter like he’d burned himself.

“Stay away,” he gasped, shaking and pale.  Something was really wrong.

Peter was scared.

“Dr. Banner, are you okay?” Peter crawled toward him, reaching out.

“Don’t touch me!” the man all but screamed, and Peter fell back in shock.  Dr. Banner needed help. Peter didn’t know how to help.

“Help,” he whispered.  Then got his breath and yelled, “Help!  Help! Please!”

But that only made him worse; Dr. Banner curled in on himself, and shook harder.

“The others will be here soon, it’s going to be okay,” Peter said, voice small and unconvincing in his own ears.  

Luckily, Mr. Stark and the Captain got there fast.  They must not have been too far away.

“What happened?” Mr. Stark demanded as he touched down, crouching down in front of Peter, looking over him quickly while Cap went to check on Dr. Banner.

“Bruce?” he murmured, voice a quiet rumble.  “Think you can breathe with me?”

“What.  Happened?”  Mr. Stark bit out, yanking Peter rather roughly to his feet.  Friday must have confirmed that he was okay, then.

“Um,” Peter’s mouth was dry.  His mind, blank. Mr. Stark was gripping his shoulders pretty hard.  Peter was distantly glad he was enhanced. If he wasn’t, he’d have some nasty bruises.  Hell, he’d still probably have some nasty bruises. Good thing the shoulders were easy to hide.

“Answer me!” the armored man growled, retracting his face plate to glare furiously into Peter’s eyes.

“I’m…not sure?” Peter squeaked.  But that was enough to trigger the word vomit.  “I woke up, and he was like that, I don’t know what’s wrong, you have to help him, please, Mr. Stark--”

“No!” The vein in Mr. Stark’s temple looked like it was about to explode.  “I meant you! What did you do?!”

“Uh, I woke up?  So I must have passed out or something.  Not that I actually passed out, my vision just kind of went out for a bit.  Just had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all,” he rambled, wincing as the vein gave another pulse. “Because…oh yeah, I tried to—“ Peter froze, eyes widening in horror.  Oh man.

“Go on,” Mr. Stark prompted, voice low and dangerous.  By this time Hawkeye and Widow were hurrying over, Peter’s team’s yellow scarf tied into a bow cocked at a jaunty angle over her temple.

They’d lost.

“Oh man,” Peter moaned.

“Yeah, I’ll give you, ‘oh man,’” Mr. Stark fumed.  “You want to tell the rest of the class what you did?”

“I,” Peter whispered lowering his head in shame.  “I tried to sneak up on the Hulk.”

Mr. Stark was struck speechless in his fury.  Ms. Romanoff hurried over to where Steve was still working on helping Dr. Banner, the poor man’s breathing escalating again after that confession.  He could hear the rapid string of faint ‘oh God’s in the menacing silence.

Peter felt sick.  

“I—I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, I wasn’t thinking—“

“You’re damn right, you weren’t thinking!  You never think _anything_ through!  We’ve been over this, remember the ferry!?  All those people, just, fucking, playing with their lives, huh!?” Mr. Stark roared, and Hawkeye hurried to slot himself between the two of them as Mr. Stark stepped forward in fury and Peter stepped back in fear.

“Please, I know I messed up.  I want to help him, please, let me help,” Peter begged, wringing his hands together anxiously.

“You’ve done enough, kid—calm down, Stark!—How about you start heading back?”  Hawkeye said, around Mr. Stark’s furious spluttering.

“But—“ Peter needed to help!  It was his fault! He needed to know that Dr. Banner would be alright.  Needed to fix his mistake. Needed to make up for scaring the quiet man so badly.

“Go!” Hawkeye snapped, so Peter went.  Faster than he meant to.

Without picking a direction, he ran for it, at least until his ribs began stabbing him and his lungs screamed for air.

He gasped, throwing down his mask (that by some miracle he’d managed to hold on to in all the chaos) and sunk to the ground, curling up on a damp pile of leaves, water slowly soak through the fabric as he struggled to hold himself together.  

He’d fucked everything up.  Royally. _Again._

First impression, or second, whatever, and he’d hurt someone.  Worse, he’d hurt Dr. Banner, one of his heroes. He wasn’t sure what exactly was wrong with Dr. Banner, but it was bad.  And it was definitely because Peter jumped on him, scared him. He didn’t think, thought the Hulk would be able to handle a jump scare like that.  Peter was so sure that the Hulk would just shake it off, but Dr. Banner had anxiety, of course it would hurt him!

Oh, God.

Tears burned his nose.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to sob or vomit.  Maybe both. He curled tighter, arms hugging his knees against his chest, cheek resting on the wet ground.

“You ruined everything,” he whispered.

He deserved a stomach that was sick with guilt and shame.  He deserved all these aches and pains, so he lost himself in the steady throb of his ribs and burn of the scrapes across his back that came to life as his heartbeat slowed and the adrenaline faded away.

After some time, he wiped his eyes and stood with a groan.  He didn’t really want to head back, face the rest of the team.  But he was tired, and dirty, and the sweat was drying, sticking his uniform to unmentionable parts unpleasantly.  He reasoned that he could still feel miserable clean.

And maybe the others could tell him how Bruce was doing.  His stomach jolted with anxiety and dread. He wanted to know but…how could he even begin to face them?  They’d be so mad. Hawkeye was definitely mad. Just like Mr. Stark. Oh man, how could he face _Mr. Stark_?  It was selfish of him to want everything to be okay.  He had hurt Dr. Banner, after all. One of the original members. He deserved the misery he was feeling right now.  

But he couldn’t run forever.  Time to face the music. He climbed to his feet, and set off, hoping he was going the right way.  He stopped. Clint had showed him how to use the sun to check directions, so he checked to make sure he was headed roughly south.  He twisted his mask absentmindedly in his hands as he walked, careful of stray roots.

Dr. Banner was one of Mr. Stark’s close friends.  There was no way he’d keep Peter around after the damage he did.

Peter didn’t think about much besides his footing and walking directions until the compound loomed into sight ahead.  

Peter hesitated, hand stretching for the door.  There was nothing else for it; better to just get it over with.  So he squared his shoulders, took a breath, and walked inside, ready to face whatever was coming for him.  But no one was there.

“Friday, where is everyone?” Peter asked, voice small.

“Second floor lounge, Mr. Parker,” the AI answered, her cool tone colored with a hint of accusation, he thought.

He gulped, starting towards the elevator, then turned abruptly for the staircase.  He couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck in a little metal box, having to watch as it climbed faster than he would like.  Plus the ‘ding’ of the elevator when it reached the floor? No, he couldn’t breathe, waiting for that wound.

So he took the stairs.  He took them as slowly as he wanted, slowing to an actual tip toe as he stepped onto the landing, then paused.  He could hear voices through the door. He couldn’t help himself, drawing closer to the door. Pressing his ear against it.  Listening.

“Bruce really is okay, Tony, just shaken up is all.  I told him to take a break for a while, maybe take a nap.  Peter really scared him.” That was the Widow’s voice.

“Good.  That’s...good,” Mr. Stark said heavily.

There was a lengthy moment of heavy silence.  Someone sighed.

“Clearly, we didn’t think this through.  I think the question now is, what are we going to do about Peter?” Captain America said.  The guy who was on his lunch box in elementary school. His uncle’s favorite comic book hero.

Peter jerked back from the door as if it had burned him.  He didn’t need to hear what was coming next. In fact, he _couldn’t_ listen to what was going to come next, he couldn’t bear it.

He covered his ears, as if that could stop the ghosts of that whispered nastily to him from the darker corners of his mind.

_“You’re not fit to wear this suit,” Mr. Stark snarled._

_“He shouldn’t even_ be _here, Tony!” Captain America shouted._

_“Haven’t you done enough damage already?” Hawkeye snorted derisively._

_“He’s just a child,” Widow spat._

_“What did you_ do _?!” Mr. Stark screamed.  “You’re a danger to yourself and others!”_

He needed to get out.  Get away. Far away. Far away from his mistakes.  The only way to escape the voices was to outrun them.

He couldn’t stay here, not for another minute.  No time for feeling, just action. So he _moved._

Before his mind could catch up, he was down the stairs, stammering an answer to a question from Friday’s he didn’t register, and flew out the door.  He ran past the warehouses, barely remembering to yank his mask on as he went, and focused on getting away. Home, preferably. But then he’d have to explain to Aunt May why he left the session early, or lie.  

No, don’t think that far ahead, just get away.  He needed to hitch a ride to the city, or Jersey.  Anywhere he could catch a train. Really, at this point, he’d settle for anywhere but here.  Anything to avoid what came next.

Was it petty, to be upset that his amazing internship was over before it really had a chance to start?  That Flash would find out and gloat and make fun? That Ned would be upset? That he’d embarrassed MJ?

Peter’s breath hitched in a sob.  

 _Focus,_ he thought sternly.  He just had to hold it together a little longer.

He crouched down beside the road.  Normally, he wouldn’t try this trick so early in the afternoon, but it shouldn’t be a problem as long as he was careful.

He felt fragile, coming apart at the seams with all the emotions from the day sealed behind the weakening force of his will.  But luckily, it didn’t take very long for a southbound trailer truck to rumble down the main road. He waited for it to pass, then stood and shot out a line, yanking and clambering his way to the top.  

He sprayed some webbing thin and laid down, finally able to pull his mask up just in time to lose all semblance of composure.  He placed it over his face to block out the sun as he broke down.

He cried long and hard, until he truly had nothing left.  He didn’t want to think about Mr. Stark yelling. He didn’t want to think about the awful look on Bruce’s face.  He didn’t want to think about how it was his fault that his team lost, his fault Bruce wasn’t doing so well.

His fault that he had smashed his fragile hope of becoming an Avenger one day into minute pieces.  Dust. Impossible to salvage, not good for anything except being blown away in the wind. He’d normally enjoy the cooling fall air as it whipped past him, but all it did was remind him that he should have grabbed his jacket before he left.  Just one more mistake to add to the pile. It was too late for regrets now.

Peter’s body felt like one big bruise, limbs and chest sore from the events of the day.  Exhaustion weighed on him like a blanket, a small comfort. He wanted nothing more than to become one with the sun-warmed truck bed.  His eyes were so heavy. It wouldn’t hurt to rest them, just for a little while. Not like today could get any worse.

 

“Karen, set alarm for an hour and alert me to any route changes,” Peter murmured.

Just in case.  Because he needed to.  Rest his eyes. Just for a bit.  Just…for……

 

......


	2. All Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note; I realized I forgot that Peter's adventures started on a Thursday, so that has been added to Ch 1. Whoops! 
> 
> Short chapter, but more's coming later today. All mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

~\/~

_Flashes of red and white.  Indistinct shapes, shadows.  Edges sharpening to glass, softening to steel.  Muffled sound, a bang, then a jolt. A warm, metallic something coated his tongue, turned his stomach.  Unease tingled, building into alarm, spiking at a shout._

_“He’s too young!  No. STOP!_

_“PETER!!”_

~/\~

 

Peter jolted awake with a gasp.  

Nausea roiled in his gut, and his head was pounding _._ Sweat poured down his face, and stuck his sheets fast to his chest.

“Ugh,” he groaned, shutting his eyes again, and throwing a hand over his face. He did not feel well.  He was just so sore, and weirdly dizzy. It kind of felt like the whole _room_ was moving.  Rocking back, and forth.  Bouncing a bit. He kept his eyes closed, trying desperately to will the sensation away. Was he sick?  He hoped he wasn’t sick; he didn’t have _time_ to be sick, between school and internship stuff...

God, did he even sleep?  He was exhausted; he could practically feel his mental gears grinding against each other as they struggled to start turning again.  Peter wracked his brain, but he couldn’t remember going to bed. Or brushing his teeth, ew. He hated falling asleep without warning like that, he always woke up like this, feeling gross and slow.

He rubbed at his eyes—and stopped as fabric brushed his tear ducts, and scraped past his cheeks.  Was he wearing gloves? Did he wear his suit to bed!?

Eww, he must have passed out after patrol or something, without bothering to change.  That explained the tackiness and clamminess of dried sweat and clingy fabric. Ugh, he should have taken a shower, at least.  He groaned again; he really needed to get up and change, but he didn’t want to; he was almost comfortable, and it was just so _cold_.  Fall must really be settling in if he’s this cold under his…blankets?  Where are his blankets?

He felt around, figuring he had kicked them of sometime in the night.  His palm slapped absently around, slapping against something hard. He lifted his head just a bit, abandoning the attempt when it made the dizziness worse.  It thunked down. Audibly. _Oww_ .  Dang.  Where was his pillow?  And why did his bed feel so _hard?_ Peter had suspected that it was soon time to turn the mattress, but this was just ridiculous.  He felt like he was missing something, something important. He just wished he could stop being dizzy already.  Not that he had experienced it much since that spider bit him, but he was pretty sure head rush didn’t normally last this long.  He thought. But it was pretty hard to think when he felt like the bed was swaying back and forth, pitching and tossing him like…

He shot upright, instantly alert.  Big mistake. Something pushed him so hard that he slid back on a hard surface, hands scrambling for purchase.  He caught an edge, and was just beginning to get his bearings when something sharp whipped his face, slicing into his forehead.  He instinctively let go of the surface he was clinging to clutch his face and tumbled.

Oops.

His stomach lurched, like he was--wait, he really was falling!  No problem, good thing he fell asleep in his suit. He reached out and shot out a line to a nearby building…but the line didn’t catch.

Where were the buildings?  Where was the _ground!?_

His skin buzzed; _danger!_ Thank you, spider sense.  Yes, he already knew he was falling, and it was oh-so helpful to be screaming at him when he was trying to concentrate.  Instinctively, he thrust out an arm and straightened his legs to stabilize himself.

He heard and felt a sickening snap.  Instant regret. Then pain. A sharp bolt, lancing from his left arm into his body, making his eyes and ears go all staticky.

Then came the fear.  His entire being screamed, _ROLL!_ And he did.

Too fast!

Sensations, sight, and sound blurred together as he tumbled painfully down.  Ever down. Falling. Rolling.

_Thunk! Smack!_

Powerless.  Blurs moving faster.  So fast it was sickening.  A kaleidoscope of pain and fear, of hitting things soft and hard.  It was agony, torture of body and mind.

_Splash!_ Everything slammed to a stop.  Cold! He instinctively inhaled, then choked as drops of liquid hit the back of his throat.  He turned and coughed. His body may have stopped, but his head didn’t get the memo. Or his stomach.  He gasped for breath, keeping his eyes closed as he willed the world to stop spinning. Just existing, concentrating on taking one breath, then the next.  Trying desperately not to acknowledge the bile rising in his throat.

Eventually, the world slowed enough that he thought he could probably open his eyes without losing his lunch.  He rolled fully onto his back, then cracked them open, one, then the other, blinking to dispel the spots. But as it cleared, Peter realized that his brain wasn’t responsible for all of the spots.

He gasped.

A multitude of stars speckled the inky expanse above him, framed by the fuzzy dark shapes of the tangle of branches above him.  More stars than he had ever seen before in his life. Brighter, nestled as they were in a sky darker than he had ever seen, blacker between points of light, emptier.  Colder.

Cold.  He shivered as a gust of wind cut through the thin fabric of his suit, goosebumps breaking out all over, soaked suit clinging sickly to his skin, reminding him of wet socks.  But all over his body. Ugh.

Peter was laying in a puddle of…questionable fluids.  He hoped it was water, but it felt vaguely greasy. And smelled...not that great.  Yeah, time to get out. He started to sit up, putting out an arm to push himself up.  White hot pain, shot through him. He lost purchase, and went back down with a gasp and a splash.

He panted, breaths harsh and shallow, scraping his throat and burning his lungs.  His left arm shook and throbbed with the aftershocks. Oh, man. That was not good.

After allowing himself to recover, Peter was ready for another attempt.  He bent his left leg, anchoring the foot into the squelchy ground and carefully braced his left arm against his chest as he used the other to slowly lift his chest out of the puddle, which was, luckily, pretty shallow.  

He groaned; his ribs were sore, so he rolled to the right, onto his relatively  uninjured side before getting his knees under him. Then he awkwardly shuffled on knees and hand to a drier patch of ground.  It was ungainly. It was difficult. But he made it.

He slumped to the ground again, this time in relief, splaying his legs and good arm out and taking a moment to stare up at the stars, trying to regain the calm wonder that had momentarily numbed his budding panic.

But now that it was acknowledged, the fear and impression that something was very wrong became impossible to ignore.

Something warm and sticky was running into his eye, stinging.  Ruining the clearest night sky he’d ever seen. Involuntary, full-body shivers wracked his frame, and he gritted his teeth as they jostled his arm and shook the stars.  Nope. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He could worry about all of this out after he was warm and dry, he’d just turn on the suit’s heating function…

Wait, he’d lost his mask somewhere, so he couldn’t talk to Karen.  But it was fine, he’d just key in the manual sequence, and…

He paused, waiting for it to kick in.  He keyed it in again.

It wasn’t working.  Why wasn’t it working!?

This was not good.  He was cold, and wet, and he was going to have to tell Mr. Stark he broke the suit again, and Mr. Stark was going to be _mad_ —

Mr. Stark.  Oh man, and boy was he mad at Peter right now, since Peter screwed up and hurt Dr. Banner at the training exercise--

The training exercise!

The full events of the day crashed over him, his heart rushing faster with every terrible event he recalled.  His eyes darted around as the pieces fell into place. Tripping. Breaking his suit. Leading the Black Widow straight to their flag. Scaring Dr. Banner so bad it hurt the man.  The other Avengers talking about him behind his back, kicking him off the team. Running. The truck.

His breathing kicked up a notch.

The truck.  That’s right, he’d hitched a ride on a truck, headed home.  And then…

Then…nothing.  He couldn’t remember making it home.  He _didn’t_ make it home.  He was laying on the truck, and he was tired, and he thought he vaguely  remembered setting an alarm with Karen. But, wait, Karen wasn’t working, and his alarm didn’t go off, because it had never been set in the first place, and it definitely wasn’t pitch dark when he left…

The teen shoved down his growing panic.  He needed to take stock. How far away did he get in all that time?  He wasn’t even sure what time he _left._ Oh man, he could be halfway across the country at this point.  And with Karen down, he had no choice but to call for a rescue.  Mr. Stark was going to be so mad, when he got here. If he decided to come.  After all this, he might decide that Peter wasn’t worth the trouble. Peter messed up one time too many.  But no, Peter was a minor, and Mr. Stark was responsible for him. No matter how mad he was, he’d always come for Peter.  Right?

Peter really didn’t want to make that call.  But he needed to, and he’d rather get it over with.  Mr. Stark may be able to fly, but it was still going to take awhile to get to him, and Peter was already cold and tired and in pain.  His arm was the worst; probably broken. And all the weird sounds echoing around the trees were starting to freak him out.

Yep.  Time to call.  Peter pushed past his anxiety, and reached down into his belt pocket for his phone, since Karen wasn’t available to access Mr. Stark’s satellite, cold fingers fumbling.  The pocket really wasn’t that big. Just enough room for his phone, a couple of dollars, his train pass, and his house keys. Where was his phone? The pocket was empty. Completely empty.

Why was it empty!?  Why would he—oh, right, he didn’t want to be worried about breaking his phone or the embarrassment of losing his keys in front of his heroes.  He wished that was all that had gone wrong today. How could he have been so stupid!? Why the hell hadn’t he taken the time to grab the essentials?  He was such an _idiot_.  How did he expect to get home without his subway pass, or get inside without his keys!  But the worst blow right now was his missing phone.

An unnatural calm washed over him.  He didn’t have his phone. No phone, no keys, no cash, no _clothes_ .  It was like he was an observer, outside his own body.  No mask (Mr. Stark was going to be _furious_ ), covered in mud.  The universe was playing dirty.  Literally.

He giggled at the absurdity of the situation.

He relied on his phone too much, probably.  Without it, he couldn’t call for help. He couldn’t Google his location.  Heck, if anybody tried to track his phone, they wouldn’t find him, only it, along with all his stuff back at the facility.

Did anyone even realize Peter was _gone_?

He swayed, dizzy.

Ned wouldn’t know.  He’d told him he’d probably be too busy to text.  Aunt May wouldn’t know. He wasn’t supposed to be back until Saturday evening.  He was sleeping over at the compound, training today, Friday, and Saturday. There was no way she knew he had decided to come back early.  Didn’t call, or text, because he didn’t grab his _phone._

He didn’t grab his phone because he ran out of there.

He ran out of there without telling anyone he was leaving because _he messed up_ .  He messed up _so bad_ , he didn’t think he could ever forgive himself.  Not this time.

His heart beat forcefully against his sternum; he could feel it throbbing behind his eyes.

Heck, he ran out without telling anyone he was _back_.  For all they knew, he was still in the woods somewhere upstate.

He felt absolutely sick _._

Nobody knew where he was.

 

He was all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the cliffhanger! You won't be kept waiting long, I promise. Next chapter should be up in several hours, as soon as I finish revisions. Also, next chapter features art by oh-stars. Look forward to it!
> 
> Thank you for the wonderful comments I have received so far! They're definitely helping to motivate me through one of the more tedious parts of the writing process.
> 
> As always, feel free to yell at me in the comments or on tumblr. My username is the same as it is here, flightrock.


	3. Story Time and Friendly Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features oh-stars' art for this fic! I've gotta say, it is amazing; I audibly gasped the first time I saw it, and seeing it again got me excited for this fic all over again. It captures the scene so well, and the colors and textures are gorgeous, so look forward to that! 
> 
> Onwards!

Alone in the dark, injured, soaking wet, cold, and no one even knew he was gone.

Peter tangled his fingers in his hair, tugging as he was overcome with fear.  He just couldn’t believe he had been so _stupid_ , that he’d gotten himself in hole this deep.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/165269548@N03/46459497594/in/dateposted-public/)

 

This was bad.  This was _so_ bad.  He couldn’t even begin to express how bad this was.  He was a city kid, he didn’t know what to do here. But he’d seen enough movies to know he didn’t have what it took.  God. This was it. It was too loud and too quiet all at once, his gasping filling the space but revealing the space, the air thick and cold, freezing him inside out, choking him.  The stars glared down, cold. The trees loomed, dark shapes getting closer, brushing him. A hand tugged his hair. He couldn’t. Just couldn’t. This was it. Not like this.  He crumbled to the ground.

Anxiety overwhelmed him and his vision swam and spotted.  Then he let go.

 

<<>>

 

Eventually, he came back to himself with a gasp.  He shot upright with a gasp, and cried out as his left arm burned with pain.

He groaned, bringing his right hand up to massage the throbbing ache in his head.  It didn’t really help it feel less like Thor was going to town up there, but it gave him something to focus on.  He hadn’t passed out, not exactly. Just kind of...checked out for a while. But it somehow left him more drained than he was before.  But calmer.

And colder.  Much colder.

His fingers were numb, and he felt hazy and slow.  Fear coiled in his stomach, albeit dulled by exhaustion and pain.  Everything was very not good, and if he couldn’t change that soon, well.  Peter wasn’t a _complete_ idiot.  He’d seen movies.

Everyone knew that when you got lost, the best thing you could possibly do was _stay where you are_.  It was drilled into him during school assemblies as a little kid, and also during that disastrous camping trip that caused his troupe leaders so much consternation, and brought a swift and brutal end to his days as a boy scout.  He wasn’t upset about quitting, as much as he was sad to lose that neckerchief he liked so much.

It actually wasn’t until years after the fact that Peter found out his Aunt wasn’t just tired of all the meetings.  No, he was actually kicked out. All because of a stupid camping trip.

He vaguely remembered the boring day hikes, the endless drone of Counselor Bryan’s voice saying things about staying where you were if you got lost, and the boy with the sweaty hand who was assigned to be his ‘buddy’ even though he said he didn’t want to be Peter’s friend.  He remembered more about how a volatile mix of homesickness and a few too many s’mores after his usual bedtime had given his younger self the mother of all stomachaches. So much so that he had completely forgotten the buddy rule, and ran to the toilet alone to take care of urgent business.  Except the latrines were in the middle of the woods. After he was done, he couldn’t resist the chance to check out all the interesting things he’d been dragged away practically by force during the day hikes. But now, with his red flashlight and no ‘buddy’ to hold him back, he was free to look at any weird mushroom for as long as he wanted, stick tons of rocks in his pockets, and stick his head as far as he could into any log.  Except that last one bit him in the butt, since he couldn’t get out and he fell asleep there until some unfamiliar adults started yelling and yanking him out, scraping his shoulders and making him cry.

(He was still crying when Uncle Ben picked him up, nodding at the other adults while he rubbed Peter’s shoulder consolingly  Peter had almost calmed down, but the tears came anew when Uncle Ben started laughing at him as soon as they were well away from the camp.  He kept laughing, all the way to the ice cream parlor, where he bought Peter a double scoop with sprinkles and a "Guess city blood just runs in the family, eh, Pete?")

Anyway, if Peter learned anything from his single week with the Boy Scouts, it was that, technically, if he wanted to be found, he was supposed to stay where he was.

But his chattering teeth and numb digits were a pretty clear sign that “staying where he was” wasn’t an option in this case.  There was a very good chance that nobody had even started looking for him yet. He’d freeze before anyone was able to get to him.  He needed to get moving, at the very least, to stave off the chill.

Getting up felt like such a chore at the moment, but he managed. He shot out his unbroken hand and steadied himself against the rough tree trunk, glad that the cold, at least, dulled some of the pain in his arm.

Looking upward, he saw the highway up above.  Peter had rolled down a severe embankment after he fell off the truck.  His best option was probably to get up the bank again and walk along the highway; he may not be feeling his best at the moment, but he was pretty sure he needed to move the opposite direction the cars were driving.  Easy navigation.

He sloshed through the puddle in the ditch at the base of…wow, a really steep incline.  The grade was intense, and he stared up at the highway a good fifteen to twenty feet above him.  He felt sick just looking at it.

Nothing else for it but to start.

He took a deep breath, then determinedly started to trudge up the incline.  His footfalls were heavy, and sent jolts of pain through his arm. The ground was soft, and gave under his feet.  Between that and the grade, he fought for every single inch of progress, toes desperately gripping at the dew-slicked grass.  Soon he was panting, then gasping from exertion.

Was the hill getting steeper!?

When shiny spots started to dance across his vision, he decided a break was in order.  He carefully snuck a look over his shoulder to see how far he’d gotten. Maybe he’d feel better when he saw how far--

He’d barely made any progress at all!  Only a couple of feet, and he wobbled in shock, scrambling to regain purchase, but slid backwards into the puddle again with a splash.

Cold water flew up the backs of his legs, and soaked his boots all over again, right back where he started.  But worse, because he was wetter.

No.  He could do this.  He was freaking _Spider-Man_.  He could handle a stupid hill.  He hauled himself out of the water with a growl, and threw himself at the obstacle.  The hill was even wetter, and his calves burned. Then he started to slide backwards.  No! No, no no!

And he was back in the puddle.  He stayed down this time, shivering as he blinked back angry tears.  

He couldn’t even get up a stupid hill!  Well, fine. If that’s how it was, at the end of the day, he supposed he didn’t exactly _need_ to get up the hill.  He could still see the highway from down here, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

It was fine.  He’d be fine.

He hauled himself to his feet again, then squelched away, into the night.  

 

<<>>

 

Peter had no concept of time, other than the fact that he was pretty sure it had gotten colder.  The wind had picked up too, rustling the trees. He wasn’t sure if his clothes were drying as much as they were stiffening; freezing and chafing in unpleasant places.

He wished he could say the same for his soft Spider-Man boots, but they continued to squelch unpleasantly like the world’s most expensive pair of wet socks.  Worse, they had been built with city terrain in mind, as Peter yelped when his arch landed square on another sharp rock in the dark. The fabric was tough, so the rock didn’t break through, but it was still hard and awkwardly shaped and it _hurt._

He just added it to the pile of unpleasant sensations he was trying not to think about.  Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot he could do to occupy his mind as he walked. Any thoughts of home were also out; they made his throat feel tight.  

So he worked on puzzling out where he could be.  Logically. He didn’t know how lost people _survived_ before Google Maps.  Did people really just wander around until they found another person who could tell them where they were?  It was ridiculous. Barbaric. Peter tried to convince himself that he couldn’t have gotten _that_ far in just a few hours, but experience begged to differ.  And Parker luck was also a thing.

Peter had grown up with many jokes about ‘Parker luck.’  Aunt May would drop an egg on the floor or burn boiling water, shrug it off with a laugh and blame it on ‘Parker luck’ before Uncle Ben would shoo her out of the kitchen, looking dangerously close to laughter while he took over and made something fit for human consumption.  When Peter came home crying in second grade because he tripped and got mud all over his brand new red backpack and was afraid of getting in trouble, Aunt May just handed him a tissue and laughed it off with a shrug and a declaration that it was just ‘Parker luck.’ (“Welcome to the family,” Aunt May had grinned.)

Uncle Ben never put much value in the concept.  He used to get annoyed with May when she’d use the phrase in any context other than a joke.  (“We make our own luck, Peter. You start blaming luck or fate for everything that goes wrong, and pretty soon you get to wondering why you don’t have any say.  Then you grow bitter, and while bitter is okay for a visit every once in a while, it isn’t a nice way to stay.”) But as Peter grew and attracted more and more trouble, Ben grudgingly acknowledged that May might just be on to something with ‘Parker luck.’  One thing was for sure; if it was, Peter got enough for several Parkers.

Some kids dropped their ice cream cone and just lost a treat.  No big deal, their guardian usually just bought them another one.  But Peter could drop an ice cream cone and need to go to the emergency room for stitches.  Fourth grade field trip. He missed the best part of the science museum while one of the chaperones drove him to the emergency room.  Peter listened to the Suzy’s mom tell Uncle Ben about how the Peter had lunged for the cone, tripped, and sliced his hand on a sharp rock.  Afterwards, when they were eating ice cream (at a café table in a bowl), and Peter tried to apologize for making Ben miss work, his Uncle just shook his head.  “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. Crazy things happen, sometimes. To some people more than others. But hey, that’s what makes life interesting, yeah?”

It’s occurred to Peter that he and field trips don’t get along well.  At least his spider powers balanced out some of his clumsiness, so he supposed after that last mishap, he could almost make his peace with school trips.  Not that his powers had caused him anything but trouble, lately. They weren’t even enough to save--

Anyways, the point was, Peter could literally be anywhere right now.  There were woods and highways upstate, out west, and south, to a point, if he paid attention right when they were studying biomes in the US.  He was reasonably sure he wasn’t east; not much room to go before you hit ocean.

Peter sighed.  He couldn’t believe that he was _bored._ He was literally lost in the woods at night, the same way tons of horror stories started, and all he could think about besides his squashy socks, numb toes, and broken arm was that there was nothing to _do._ And it was super quiet.  

Under the woosh of cars on the highway above him, there was a level of silence he had never experienced before.  It was _spooky_ .  Like some dark force was hiding in all the trees, holding its breath, just waiting for Peter to let his guard down for a moment so it could _get him_.

Peter’s chest started to go tight.  “Okay, Parker, it’s fine,” he said, figuring it wasn’t crazy to talk to yourself if nobody was around to hear it.  That’s totally how it worked.

The problem was, what did you talk to yourself about?

“I don’t know!” he all but yelled. The sound echoed back, and the silence that followed was even creepier.  Menacing, almost.

So Peter stayed quiet as he walked, and focused on the faint sounds of cars on the highway above.  If he concentrated, he could almost pretend he was just walking through Central Park at night for some reason.  Maybe he needed a change of pace. Maybe someone had lost their hamster or something, after it got out of its tiny harness during a walk, and since Peter had better night vision than most people, he was slowly combing the park for him.  His name was Falafel, and he was Daniel’s seeing eye hamster, the most important hamster. And the best friend a kid could ever hope to have. Falafel had been the smallest one of the litter, and had been named for the food item he resembled when he curled up tight, always sad because he was doomed to stay in the pet shop alone and unloved forever until--  

A strange roaring noise jolted Peter out of the story he was crafting.  And it was only getting louder. He forgot all about Falafel’s backstory and tried to puzzle out what the noise could be  He couldn’t quite place it, but it was familiar, somehow. Then he saw it.

A river.  Headlights from the bridge far above cast hazy highlights on its surface, as it swept past where Peter was standing in shock, mouth hanging open.  The inky water swirled and roared, warning every creature to keep their distance or be swept away. Even the air was hostile, cold and wet.

Peter didn’t know what to do.  He knew he had to keep going this way, but the slope could be more accurately described as a cliff at this point.  The bridge itself was too far to shoot a web to, with the devices on manual and especially with a broken arm. And crossing the water was out of the question; Peter didn’t know much about spiders and buoyancy, but even if he was an olympic level athlete, he wouldn’t try to cross this thing all alone in the dark.  Or at all, when it was moving this fast.

“Shit,” he moaned, and paced, uninjured hand running tugging at his hair.  This wasn’t in the plan. _None of this was in the plan,_ he thought, bitterly.  “Shut up, I need to think,” he snapped.

There were only three options.  Going back the way he came was probably the best way to go, but the thought of walking so far going the wrong way and losing so much progress made him want to curl up in a ball and freeze to death.  So that was out. So was crossing this monstrosity of a river.

Which left only one option; following the riverbank.  Maybe he’d reach a point where the width of the water was narrower.  Narrow enough to swing over, hopefully. He really didn’t want to be wetter than he already was.  Peter knew the chances of him finding a place like this were slim, but at this point, he honestly didn’t care.  He just needed to keep going. Keep on swimming, or, well, walking. Keep his body temperature up until the sun rose or he found civilization.  Whichever came first. Because if he stopped...he didn’t know if he’d be able to start again.

So Peter walked along the river, despite the air being colder and the sound of running water constantly tricking him into thinking his bladder was fuller than it really was.  Plus the bugs. He could have sworn they’d all be dead by this time of year. It was ridiculously annoying, having only one arm available to swat them with. And tried to ignore the silence that grew ever deeper the farther away he got from the highway.  

His breath was loud in his ears.  Rasping. His heartbeat provided more background noise.  Every snapped twig sounded like a gunshot. The silence grew ever more hostile.  Peter wasn’t sure how much more his frayed nerves could take.

Then an animal noise Peter couldn’t identify screeched through the silence, unnervingly close, and Peter _ran._

He barreled through the undergrowth, and through the trees, up and side and quick step over and duck...until he inevitably tripped, jostling his injured wrist and vision going white with pain.  Tears poured from his eyes as he pulled himself laboriously into a sitting position.

“Help,” he whispered.  Then yelled. “Help!” Like a dam had broken, Peter was yelling as loud as he could, wrecking his throat.  “Help, oh God, please! _Help_ me!  Somebody!   _Anybody!!_ Heeelp!”  His voice cracked, and he started coughing.  Stupid. There was nobody around to hear. Now his throat hurt on top of everything else, why was he such an—

“Hellooo!” a distant voice called.  Peter froze in shock.

“Hellooo!” it called again.  Peter worked his jaw; how did he make sounds?!

“Do you need help?” another voice called.  C’mon, Parker, now or never.

“Yes!” he squeaked, then cleared his throat painfully, and yelled, “Here! Please!” His voice cracked and squeaked, and he was sure his panic was all too obvious, but Peter didn’t care at this point.  He felt almost weak with relief; he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Hey man, it’s cool!  We’ll be right there. Just keep talking!” another voice called.

“Okay!” Peter shouted.  Then paused. “I don’t know what to say!”

“Just make something up!” the first voice said.  Louder this time.

“Okay, I can do that.” Peter said.  “Um, it’s really dark out here. And quiet.  Except for the river. That’s _really_ loud; I didn’t know water could make so much noise.  Don’t know why I’m surprised, though; my friend Ned belly flopped pretty hard when we were ten, and if skin on water can make a sound like that, it make sense that water on rocks and dirt and branches and stuff would--”

He stopped abruptly as a bright light shined into his eyes, blinding him.  He doubled over, covering streaming eyes as well as he could with only one hand.  

“Jace!” the shadowy outline of the owner of the second voice said mildly.  

“Oops,” Jace said sheepishly, “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to get you like that.”

“It’s okay,” Peter gasped, blinking and squinting at the two people that were slowly coming into focus, features shadowy and vaguely menacing behind the large flashlight Jace carried.  Their voices might be friendly, but their frames were large, towering above Peter’s shivering form. A sick spike of fear and regret turned his stomach. Maybe calling for help was a mistake; after all, if these two guys decided they were going to do something awful to Peter, there was nobody else around to hear him scream.

“Hey, man, you’re going to be okay.  Think you can take a few deep breaths for me?”  The second guy’s soothing rumble brought Peter’s attention to the burn in his chest, and the tremble in his good hand.  Peter’s eyes widened in panic; his throat was closing up just like earlier, when the fear overwhelmed him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, hey, shhh, you’re cool, everything’s cool,” the guy soothed.  “I’m going to touch you now, okay?”

Peter froze in panic, but the guy only took his good hand away from where Peter was clutching his chest and brought it to his own.  “Here, man. Like this.”

The guy took a few exaggerated breaths.  Peter felt the guy’s chest rise and fall.

“Come on, match me.  In for three, out for six.  In...and out……” Peter tried, breath shaky and shallow.  He definitely wasn’t doing this right. Couldn’t even breathe right, now pathetic.  But the guy didn’t seem to think so, just said “Good! Just like that, you’re cool, man.”

Slowly, Peter started to regain control over his lungs.  He tensed, briefly, as he felt something baggy slip around his shoulders, but then the wind stopped cutting through the still wet fabric of his suit, and he felt his muscles relax a bit more.

“Awesome,” the guy praised, and patted Peter’s hand.  His hands were warm and gentle, and fully covered Peter’s own.  “See, it’s cool. You’re cool. We’re all chill here. I’m Theo, and this is Jace, of course.”

“Hey,” the other guy waved a bit, disrupting the shadows and drawing attention to his bare arms.

“Um, I’m Peter.  Oh,” Peter said, seeing the jacket hanging off his shoulders and trying to shrug it off and hand it back.  Jace put his hands out in mild panic. “No, no! You keep it! You’re probably cold, wearing that...uh, why are you dressed up like that guy on YouTube who does all those flips?”

 _Because I’m Spider-Man,_ was on the tip of Peter’s brain, immediately followed by _Secret identity!_ and then he realized he was quiet for too long and the guys were staring at him, so he let a random excuse slip off his tongue.

“Uhhh...cosplay?” he asked more than told them, then winced.  Real convincing, Parker.

But Theo just smiled and nodded, long hair bobbing along.  “That’s cool, man. It’s a bit late for Halloween, but I guess any season is Con season, am I right?”

Peter subtly released the breath he was holding and nodded.  His body shook, jostling his bad arm, and he winced.

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Peter thought Theo might have furrowed his brows.  He definitely stood up a bit straighter. “Come on, we can talk about costumes back at the site.  We should be getting back before AJ gets too worried.” He smiled at Peter. “Come on, it’s not too much farther.  We have enough extra clothes between us that we should be able to find you something warmer than that body sock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to oh-stars for the amazing art! Wasn't it awesome? If you want to see more awesome stuff, check her out here on AO3 (she also writes!) at oh-stars or on tumblr at oh--stars. She also recently did sweet art for this adorable Stucky kid fic by oddetteandodile, Waking up Slow. 
> 
> Hope you're all enjoying the story so far, and thank you all for reading! Feel free to message me with any concerns about triggers or any questions; stay safe, and watch the tags! There might be one more chapter tonight, just depends how my chapter count works out. Until next time!


	4. On My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS!!!! 
> 
> TW and SPOILER: At the very end of this chapter, Peter, who is a minor, has an encounter with an unreasonable police officer. It involves a handgun, with no shots fired, and the officer tackling Peter, who is a minor. Check end notes for details, and if you have any concerns, PLEASE stay safe. I guarantee reading my fic is not worth your mental health.
> 
> If you would like to SKIP this part, just stop reading at the line of stars like this ********** and skip to the end notes. I'll put a summary of what plot you missed there. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me! I promise the rest of this chapter isn't that dark. Enjoy! ;)

Somehow, the darkness didn’t feel quite so menacing with a couple of friendly voices working to fill the empty space.  Theo was really nice; Peter learned that he and his friends were students at a school hours away, and that they were skipping class tomorrow to go backpacking along the Appalachian trail.  Not that that information stuck at the time.

Jace wasn’t as interested in making conversation, but he was involved in other ways.  He’d interject every now and then to point out a native tree, then tell them to stop so he could pry invasive bugs off.  

Peter wished he could pay better attention.  At any other time, he’d be all over this. But as it was, he was so tired his head was spinning.  Theo seemed to get that, and he gently reminded Jace that they’d have plenty of time to explore after they got their guest situated.

Peter was about to protest that he was fine, but then he saw a glow through the trees up ahead.  “Looks like we’re almost here.” There was a grin in Theo’s voice. He raised it as they stepped into a clearing where three small tents were awash with a glowy sort of light.  There was a figure slouched on a lawn chair. “Look alive, AJ, we have a visitor!”

The person jumped out of their chair.  “I swear to God, The, if it’s another frog and it miraculously finds its way into my tent again, I’m going to kick your ass so hard, you’ll have to--oh, hey, what’s up?”

Theo steered Peter over to the person now standing by the fire.  “Peter, this is AJ. AJ, Peter.” He shot AJ a significant look. “Hey, you think you can help me find Peter some clothes?  Warm up by the fire for a bit, Pete, we’ll be right back.” 

Peter’s heart lurched at the familiar nickname, but he didn’t say anything as the other two walked away.  Jace had made a beeline for his own tent as soon as they got to the clearing, so Peter was left alone to watch the fire.  He hadn’t been this close to a harmless blaze since that scout trip, and was just settling in to watch when he heard somewhat distant conversation start up about him.  

“It’s bad, A,”  Theo whispered. “Jace and me found that poor kid all alone, yelling himself hoarse in a soaked Halloween costume.  Then he panicked when we got close.”

Now, Peter knew it was rude to eavesdrop (that time with the Avengers was different), but he couldn’t exactly  _ help  _ having super-hearing, and it would be  _ super  _ awkward to walk over to the tents and point that out.  So he just sat there, doing his very best to look like he was definitely not eavesdropping.  Standard practice, in case he was too absorbed to notice someone approaching.

“You think he’s in trouble?” AJ muttered.  Peter could hear fabric shifting, and the distinctive crunch of waterproof fabric and scree of zippers.

“I’ve just got that feeling, A.” Theo said, voice grim.  “Plus, you saw his face, his  _ eye.   _ And you might not have caught this, but he’s seriously favoring his left arm.  Whatever reason the kid has for being all alone out here, it can’t be good.”

Peter gulped.  This was bad. There was obviously a huge misunderstanding, and he couldn’t come up with a good enough lie to cover himself.  He shouldn’t stay. But where else was he supposed to go? Peter didn’t know what--

Jace thumped down beside him, and Peter scrambled to school his expression into something that said ‘I was definitely Not Panicking because I heard something while Definitely Not Eavesdropping, wow this fire is neat.’

Except he’s pretty sure he might have said that last part out loud, because Jace was grinning at him, and saying, “I know, right?  I could sit here and watch this thing turn to embers for  _ hours _ .  Almost better than Netflix.”  He looked at Peter assessingly.  “You haven’t seen one this close before, have you.”  

It wasn’t really a question, but Peter shrugged.

“Dang, you’ve been missing out.”  Jace turned back to the fire. “You ever hear that old saying about peeing the bed if you play with fire?”

Peter shook his head, and Jace’s grin turned downright  _ evil.   _ “You want to test it out?”

And that was how Peter ended up staring into the flames in rapt concentration, egging his chosen Necco wafer on.  “Come on, come on!” Peter said, biting his lip. They had each picked a color from the tube, tossed them close to the logs, and the first one to get burned up completely would win.  Peter picked black, and Jace picked purple.

“Come on, Purple!” Jace encouraged, then let out a whoop as it caught.

“Shoot,” Peter muttered, but then the black caught, just a moment later, and soon he was yelling just as loud as Jace, whose encouragements grew frantic as part of a log collapsed, pushing a tongue of flame closer to the black wafer and the game in Peter’s favor.

That was how Theo and AJ came back and found them, yelling nonsensically at the camp fire.

“Yes!”  Jace fist pumped, and Peter groaned in defeat.

Theo just laughed.  AJ rolled their eyes, then smiled at Peter, warm and welcoming as the fire’s glow.  “Sorry about that, we did find clothes for you, by the way.”

Peter didn’t see any clothes, and AJ chuckled at bit.  “They’re in the tent, but I wanted to introduce myself properly first.”  AJ held out a hand. “Hi, I’m AJ, and my preferred pronouns are they/them.  What are yours?”

Peter blinked.  He’d never been asked that in person before, but MJ had explained the concept to him.  “Hi, AJ. Um, I’m Peter. Mine are he/him?”

He looked at AJ for confirmation, and they nodded approvingly Peter took their hand and shook.  “Yep, just like that. Okay, so clothes are in the blue tent back there,” they pointed. “Are you hungry?  We already had dinner, but I can warm some up for you.”

Peter just shrugged, and winced; arm.  But AJ assessed him with a keen eye. “When was the last time you ate?” Peter shrugged again, one-shouldered this time.  “Mmm-hmm. Well, I’m going to throw a packet on the fire. I’d get out of those clothes in the meantime, if I were you. I’m forgetting something.”  Their brow furrowed, then their eyebrows shot up. “Oh! Here’s a flashlight.” AJ handed him the small kind you’d put on a keychain, then turned to rummage around in a plastic bag.

So Peter went to do as AJ suggested.  With all electronically-assisted functionality essentially kaput, Peter had to quite literally peel the garment off.  Which was all kinds of Not Fun thanks to the way the soaked fabric was clinging to his skin coupled with the fact he was down an arm.  And all the stretching reminded him of all his other aches from the day, from the twinge in his ribs to the burn of his, well, brush-burns.  And chafing. So much chafing. He actually gasped in pain as the fabric peeled away from areas where the skin had broken.

It was a struggle, but he eventually managed to get himself into the set of sweats, t-shirt, and hoodie.  There was also a thick pair of socks, and slip-on shoes.

“Camp shoes,” Theo had explained when Peter finally emerged, pale and shaky.  Theo quickly gestured him to a seat, his loose grin tightening around the edges.  “Hey, would it be okay if AJ took a look at you?”

“Theo,” AJ said disapprovingly.  “You know I’m just a freshman.”

Theo rolled his eyes.  “You’ve had first aid,” he said, and AJ huffed, but got up to go rummage through their tent again.  “They’re premed,” Theo explained, in response to Peter’s non-question.

“And I’m already sick of you losers coming to me me instead of campus medical,” AJ groused without heat, kneeling in front of Peter with a first aid kit.  “Is it okay if I take a look at your arm?” They asked, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry, we couldn’t help but notice,” they said, looking to Theo, who nodded.

“You held it weird during the walk back,” Theo said apologetically.  

“You didn’t even put it through the sleeve,” Jace observed nonchalantly.  

Peter glanced down, to where he was awkwardly holding the limb under his borrowed hoodie.  When he looked up again, he jumped as his gaze met AJ’s, face much closer than he expected.

“Sorry,” AJ said, backing up a bit.  “Please, Peter? I can’t do a lot for you, but I’ll do what I can.”

Peter bit his lip; he knew his healing factor didn’t work  _ that  _ fast, but some small part of him was still afraid that this would blow what little cover he managed to maintain with his flimsy excuses.  He thanked whatever higher power might be listening that nobody had been able to get a close look of his suit between the darkness and all the mud (he had left it laid out beside one of the tents to dry; he’d have to remember to pack it up before one of the others could get a good look).

Despite his misgivings, there really wasn’t any reason  _ not  _ to let AJ take a look.  So he let them help him pull the hoodie off again, shrinking at the cacophony of sympathetic noises.  Jace gasped at the deepening purple of his chest under the grime, and Peter ducked his head in shame. AJ squeezed his knee lightly.

“Seriously, Peter, I promise I’ll only ask this once.  What happened?”

Peter stiffened.  He was a truly horrendous liar.  There was a reason he had sworn never to play Bullshit again. Even  _ Ned  _ could tell when he was bluffing.  And Ned was probably the most trusting guy in Queens.

“I fell,” he said, and winced, knowing exactly what that sounded like an excuse for, whispered words dancing around in his brain.

_ You think he’s in trouble? _

_ Whatever reason the kid has for being all alone out here, it can’t be good. _

And sure enough, AJ and Theo shared a  _ look _ .

“I did!” Peter insisted.  “That’s how I got so wet. Hurt my arm on the way down.”

He neglected to mention that his arm had already been injured before he fell down the embankment that led to the sizeable puddle.  And from the way the pair of them looked at Peter, he would bet they were on to him.

Neither called him out, though.  AJ just asked Theo to hold a flashlight over the area, and warned Peter that they were about to touch him.  Peter yelped as they papitated the area, stars briefly exploding along his field of vision. AJ quickly withdrew, but began to explore other areas, pressing lightly along his ribs, nostrils flaring as their eyes grew dark.  Then they turned to him.

“You should go to a hospital,” they said, no room for argument in their voice.  Yep, time for Peter to go.

His intention to bolt must have shown, because then Theo was gripping his good shoulder.  Authoritatively, but not forcefully. Peter froze. “Wait, wait. Hear us out.”

Jace had been watching the proceedings with concern deepening his face, and started wringing his hands.  “I’m going for a smoke,” he announced suddenly, and all eyes snapped to him. But he was already far beyond the fire.

“Check in in ten!” Theo called, then turned back to Peter.  AJ sat back on their heels. 

“Look,” they said, voice gentle.  “It’s pretty obvious that you’re in some deep into some serious shit here.  But as much as we’d like to help you, we recognize that our way of helping might not be what’s right for you.  As much as  _ I’d  _ be more comfortable if we took you to the hospital, your reaction tells me that would be the opposite of helpful right now.  Am I right?”

Peter’s mouth fell open, and Theo just smiled sadly.  “What we’re trying to say is, we trust you to know what’s best for you.”

“Yes,” AJ nodded.  “But we’ve still got to ask; would you like us to get you medical help?   _ Professional  _ medical help?”

Emotion rose to clog Peter’s throat, so he just shook his head.  

Theo gave his shoulder a soft squeeze before releasing him, and grabbed his backpack.  “Think I’ll join Jace for a bit,” he told them, before walking off into the woods.

Peter watched him go, then turned back to AJ when the noise of them rummaging around in the kit stopped.  “I understand that you don’t want to go anywhere for help, but would it be alright if I splinted that for you?” they asked, nodding towards Peter’s arm.

“Yeah,” Peter said, finding his words again.  He watched AJ roll up a spare shirt. “Thank you.”

They regarded him with knowing eyes, then smiled.  “No problem.”

After it was done, his wrist stabilized with soft clothes and tied up in a sling, Peter let out a sigh of relief as he could finally release the muscles that were tense with the effort of keeping the limb still.  AJ chuckled as they helped Peter pull the borrowed hoodie over top of it again, the sleeve hanging empty. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Peter said.  “Thanks.” It  _ was  _ better, but only marginally; all the prodding had left him feeling sore and ill, and the pounding in his skull had only grown more insistent.  

AJ handed him a couple of pills, a bottle of water, and a granola bar.  “Here, take those. You can have ibuprofen, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, opening the water eagerly, fumbling at the twist top.  That first swallow felt  _ amazing  _ on his tortured throat, and he drank deeply before remembering the pills.  He didn’t have high hopes about their effectiveness, but at this point he’d try anything.  

The granola bar posed a challenge.  He held it consideringly in his hand before ripping it open with the help of his teeth.  He didn’t think he was very hungry, but his appetite kicked back in after the first couple of bites, and when he finished he realized he was starving, blinking forlornly at the empty wrapper.

AJ busted up laughing, startling Peter.  “Sorry! You just looked so...wait, here, that food’s probably ready to go.”

They dug something out of the fire with a stick, then rolled it over to the ground in front of Peter.  He slid down as they carefully peeled back to foil with a fork and a knife, an explosion of steam finally clearing up enough to reveal a potato.  

Peter ignored the warnings about temperature, and dug right in, eyes wide as he juggled  the food around in his mouth. Then panicked, allowing the molten mouthful to slide down his throat.  He coughed, and AJ rolled their eyes as they handed him the open water bottle.

“Don’t hurt yourself.  Think we still have some sour cream left, if you’re interested.”

By the time just the foil remained, Peter felt significantly better, the edge of his numerous aches beginning to dull.  He remained on the ground, the log a solid weight at his back, and the fire warming his front. AJ had a notebook open, a light in one hand and a pen in the other.  The other members of their party were still gone, and AJ smiled at him when he expressed his concern.

“No need to worry, yet.  They’re together, so they should be fine.” They propped their chin on a hand.  “Got something on your mind?”

Peter started to shake his head, but all the questions he had came bubbling to the surface.  “Where are we? Who are you guys? Are you really sleeping out here  _ for fun? _ Aren’t there bears and stuff out here?  Oh, and do you think I could borrow a cell phone?

AJ gaped, then shook their head with a chuckle.  “Guess you did. Okay, okay. I’ll do my best here.  But first,” they scooted closer than regarded Peter seriously.  “Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need help? I’m not going to lie, you’re raising a lot of red flags right now.”  They pursed their lips. “I’ll call the police for you if you’d like, but I won’t get them involved if you don’t want me to.”

Peter shook his head. “Thank you, but no.”  He chuckled ruefully. “I  _ am  _ in trouble, but it’s not like anyone’s hurting me or anything.  I know this looks bad, and you might not believe me, but this was all my fault.”  Peter wracked his brain, trying to explain his situation truthfully but not in a level of detail that would reveal too much about his identity.  “I was just stupid. I...wandered away from the-my group without telling anyone. Fell asleep on top-er, I mean, in a cargo truck, and fell out wherever here is.  I fell down a hill, and couldn’t get back to the road.”

AJ shot him a knowing look.  “That’s some really bad luck,” they said; Peter was sure they knew he was leaving important details out, but thankfully, didn’t call him on it.  

“Okay, so I don’t know where you were originally, but we’ve currently just off the Appalachian trail; the southern Pennsylvania segment.”  

Peter blinked at them in confusion.  That name sounded familiar. AJ held out a hand, all fingers stacked up with their thumb on top, and pointed to an area around where their pinky started.  “Imagine my hand is Pennsylvania. We’re about here. But the trail runs up a lot of the east coast starting somewhere in Georgia and ending in Maine. Or the opposite, if you’d like.”

Peter’s eyes widened.  “You guys started all the way down there?!”

Giggly laughter sounded behind Peter, and he jumped, jerking his head around to find Jace and Theo stumbling their way back to the campfire.  

“No way!” Jace laughed as he took a seat on the other side of Peter, and Theo sat beside him.  “Don’t think I’d survive that.”

Peter wrinkled his nose at the smell coming off the guys’ jackets.  It was sweet and musky, like a skunk that rolled in something floral.  AJ was unphased by the scent, just grinned and chuckled along with them.

Theo giggled a bit.  “I don’t know, man. We keep these trips up, and you’ll be in pretty good shape by the time graduation rolls around.”

“Graduation?” Peter asked.  These guys looked a bit old to be in school.

“College, man,” Theo said.  He sat up a bit straighter. “Oh shit, that’s right.  You’re just a baby, aren’t you?”

Peter bristled.  “I’m not--”

“He means high school,” AJ cut in.  They punched Theo in the shoulder. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Aw, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Theo says, pouting a bit.  “You started applying yet?”

“Oh, um,” Peter said, awkwardly, “Not yet.  I’m just a sophomore.”

Jace perked up.  “Oh man, sophomore year was the  _ pits. _ ”

AJ snorted.  “High school in general was the worst.”

Peter’s brow furrowed.  “Wait, is college better?”

“Dude,” Theo drawled, reaching around AJ to clasp Peter on the shoulder and shake him for emphasis.  “College is  _ amazing _ .”

AJ rolled their eyes.  “Yeah, maybe if we were all counseling majors, it would be.”  Jace nodded along enthusiastically.

“Hey,” Theo pouted.  “My workload is hard, too!  We can’t all be super geniuses.  And you guys have to agree the schedule is better.”    

“I mean, the lectures are manageable,” Jace conceded.  “Shorter. And spread out. But projects sound like hell.”

“What’s your major?” Peter asked.

“Mech-E.  Mechanical engineering,” Jace elaborated at Peter’s confused look.  

“Counseling,” Theo chimed in unnecessarily.  

Peter turned to AJ.  “And I’m premed,” they said.  “It’s awful.” 

“Oh yeah,” Peter said.  He knew that. They just checked his arm.

“Seriously, though,” AJ said, “If you know how to manage your time, college is way easier.  There’s not nearly as much busywork as you had in high school. But you have to pay for your own books, so,” they shrugged.

“Psh, there’s scholarships,” Theo waved a hand.  

“Depends,” Jace said.  “Got any idea what you want to study, Peter?”

“Oh, um,” Peter said, shrinking a bit under the scrutiny.  “I was thinking either chemical engineering, or maybe bioengineering.  But I also really like making videos, so doing something with media or film might be fun?”

“Dang,” Theo said, mouth hanging open.  “You’ve got some  _ plans _ .”

“The good news is, you don’t really have to choose right away,” Jace said.  “Freshman year is mostly about getting gen ed requirements out of the way.”

“Yeah, I miss that,” AJ sighed. “I’m going to have so much missed work to catch up on after I get back from this trip.”

“Same,” Peter said, shuddering.  “I got a lot of it done since I knew I was going to be train--um, busy, this weekend.  But there’s still a lot I need to do. I really need to get back.”

“Hey, man, just relax,” Theo said.  “Remember those breaths from earlier?  Take a few.” Peter felt his shoulder come down from his ears.  “There you go.” He smiled softly at Peter. “Nothing we can do about it tonight.  So why worry?”

“Oh, yeah, that reminds me,” AJ said.  “You wanted to call someone, right? Let them know you’re okay?”

Peter nodded.  

“Okay, cool.  Guys, I think our best bet is going to be to backtrack to that town we had lunch in yesterday,” AJ speculated.

Jace groaned.  “Nooo, that was bad enough the first time!”

“You don’t have to--” Peter started…

“No, they’ve got a point,” Theo said.  “We didn’t plan to hit another town until Saturday, and Peter needs to use a phone.”

“Fair,” Jace said.  “Not going to say no to a hot meal.”

“Seriously,” Peter protested, putting his hands up, “I don’t want you guy--, uh, you all, to go to any trouble.  You’ve done too much already.”

“Shut up, Peter,” AJ said, not unkindly.  “That’s up to us to decide. And we decide to take you to town, yeah?”

“Yeah!” the rest of the group chorused.

“Then it’s settled,” AJ crossed their arms with satisfaction.  “First thing in the morning.”

 

<<>>

  
  


It was not, in fact, ‘first thing in the morning’ when they finally packed up and got moving.  Everyone was up pretty late sharing high school horror stories. Apparently Theo and Jace had gone to the same school, so they had plenty of mortifying moments to share.  Like that time Theo had put spaghetti in his pocket for the memes, then kept it in there all day on a dare and had to empty his pockets for the principal after Jace reported him like a horrible friend, filming the man’s reaction as Theo unpacked soggy handfuls onto the metal table.  Apparently it was priceless. Jace promised to text it to Peter. Peter had his own stories, none of them quite that funny, but there was the time MJ had spun it so he and Ned were blamed for stealing all the frogs from the labs. Turns out MJ had slipped all 10 into Peter’s backpack while he left it unattended during a bathroom break.

Theo had offered Peter a joint at some point during the evening, but he turned the guy down; Peter didn’t mind that the others smoked, but it really wasn’t his thing.

“It’s cool, Peter.  It’s not really my thing either,” AJ admitted.  “Too smelly,” they shoved Theo playfully.

“Hey, we step away before light up!” Theo pouted.

“I didn’t like it at first, either,” Jace admitted.  “But it helps my anxiety, so,” he shrugged. 

Peter admitted that sounded appealing, especially now, but he was reluctant to try it here, too far from any help if it happened to interact badly with his enhanced physiology.  Plus, it wasn’t strictly legal, and part of him was reluctant to give the adults in his life even more reasons to be angry with him when he finally got back.

Despite his exhaustion, Peter had had a hard time getting to sleep.  Even with sharing Theo’s tent and bedroll, rocks and roots cut into Peter’s back.  It was inexplicably cold, the ground leeching the heat from his body, and between his arm and the rest of his injuries from his long day, he ached.  He felt every minute as it ticked by, agonizing wordlessly about his situation and sharing such close quarters with another human until he opened his eyes, groaning in pain.

Sometime during the night, he had shifted onto his stomach and curled up, probably to conserve warmth, but now his arm felt like holy hell.  If it healed during the night, Peter couldn’t tell; the pain  _ was  _ duller, but when he tried to shift, the bolt of agony was immense.  He cried out a bit, and hissed, thankfully not waking Theo. But that meant he just kind of laid there awkwardly.

After some more medicine and a quick breakfast, the group packed up and hit the road.  Or, rather, trail. Peter was amazed at the speed the others could break down the tents and scatter the fire pit ashes, standing uselessly to the side while the others made sure the area looked like nobody had ever been there. 

“I can carry something,” Peter offered, feeling guilty he was the only one without a pack.  He did have a small daypack they had given him to carry his ‘Halloween costume’ in. Not like the others’, which weighted heavily on their shoulders.

Theo glanced at Peter’s arm, done up in a fresh sling under the sweatshirt, sleeve hanging empty.  “Think we’re good, Pete. Appreciate the offer, though,” he smiled.

“Wait,” AJ said.  “You can’t hike in those!” They pointed to the slip-on camp shoes Peter still wore.  

“Why not?” Peter’s brow furrowed.

“Oh shit, you’re right.” Jace said.  “I brought an extra set of boots, but they’re going to be too big, I think.”

“Better than nothing,” AJ said grimly, completely ignoring Peter’s sputtered attempts to tell them that this was totally unnecessary.  “Sorry, Peter, but it really is. You’ll thank me later. Is that okay with you, Jace?”

“Yeah, for sure!” the guy said, whipping his pack off to dig around for the spare set.  He also dug out a couple of spare pairs of socks. “To stuff the toes,” he explained, at Peter’s inquisitive glance.  

“How many pairs of socks did you bring?” AJ laughed.  

“Hey, you can never have too many socks!” Jace scowled.

“This is a three day trip!” AJ rolled their eyes.

“Hey, it all worked out!” Theo said, putting his hands up.  He helped Peter stuff the boots, and showed him how to lace them up so they’d cinch around Peter’s admittedly skinny ankles.  Peter tried not to be embarrassed that a super cool guy like Theo had to tie his shoes for him like he was back in kindergarten; it was just impossible to get the laces tight enough with only one arm to work with.  But there was no pity in his gaze, completely focussed on the task at hand.

“Just watch your footing,” Theo advised as he helped Peter to his feet again.  “Your toes are going to be longer than you’re used to.”

“Sorry in advance.” AJ grimaced.

“For what?” Peter said.

“Blisters,” Jace said, packing away the camp shoes before hefting his pack again.  “Better than twisting an ankle, though. And I’ve got stuff for those.”

“Of course you do,” AJ shook their head fondly.  “Such a boy scout.”

“You know me! Always prepared,” he grinned.

“Ugh,” AJ said, rolling their eyes as the group set off.  “Good for them for teaching gender normative boys how to camp and survive in the wild and shit, I guess.  If only their sister organization would extend the same courtesy their female classmates. Or those of us who don’t fit in either category.”

“Here we go again,” Theo grinned.

“AJ  _ hates  _ the Scouts,” Jace explained.

“I do not  _ hate  _ them,” AJ sniffed.  “I just think they’re squandering their opportunity to be more inclusive.  They should both be dissolved and replaced with more inclusive groups. There could be, I don’t know, adventure scouts and service scouts, instead of attaching fabricated gender roles to fundamentally different but equally valuable skill sets!”

“That’s a good idea,” Peter said.  “I never liked the camping part much.  That’s what got me kicked out.”

“See?” AJ crowed.  “It’s not just me! And don’t get me started about the inherent inequality in prestige of the Gold Award versus promotion to Eagle Scout.”

“Wait, wait; hol up, how do you get kicked out of boy scouts?” Theo asked.

Peter flushed.  “Well, my aunt always says we were respectfully asked to leave--”

“Same difference,” Jace waved a hand.  “What happened?”

So Peter recounted his woefully short stint as a boy scout as the others howled.  The excess of s’mores, his nighttime escapades. The fire department. (He left out the part about his uncle, and ice cream afterwards.)

~

The group laughed and joked in between Jace’s lessons.  He taught Peter how to find the trail, about the painted blazes on the trees, how they marked the path.  Told him about shelters and trail etiquette, like not leaving a trace of human presence behind. That meant taking all trash with them, and even roughing up the grass where their bodies had pressed it down as they slept.  All the while, the group hiked past rocky streams, and spotted late-blooming wildflowers. It turned out that Jace also had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of wild plants.

“Don’t ask me how I know this stuff,” he said, after he pointed out Queen Anne’s lace and buttercups.

“How do you know this stuff?” Theo grinned.

Jace shoved him, laughing.  “Shut up!”

“Make me!”

Jace licked his hand and reached for Theo’s face.  Theo ducked to the side, then howled and started running as Jace thew off his pack to boost the speed of his pursuit, and Peter wheezed with laughter.  AJ chuckled when Jace tackled the other boy and wiped spit all over his face.

Still, their amusement didn’t stop them from asking, “What are you guys, six?” when the two finally rejoined their small group, red-faced and sweaty.  

They stopped for a brief snack around noon, sprawled out along the side of a small waterfall.  Peter was fascinated, enjoying the way the water burbled cheerfully as it tumbled over the rocks.  He was surprised how much he was enjoying the trip; he didn’t even notice his various aches until he sat down.  Thank God for super healing; he woke up to the chafing closed up, at least. Now his feet were burning oddly, but he dismissed the sensation and turned to listen to the others’ stories about other students they met around campus.  College was a wild place, apparently.

(“Oh man, that guy that sat like 3 rows down from me in psych…” Theo was laughing, “he...oh my God, he snuck his dog into lecture his bag.  Apparently it was sick, and he was going to take it to the vet after. But the only reason everyone found out was,” he was gasping, “the smell…” and he couldn’t continue, literally on the ground, tears of hilarity streaming down his face.

“The dog shit in the guy’s bag,” Jace explained, grinning.  

Theo was wheezing.  “And the professor!” he howled.

“The professor was...less than impressed,” Jace grinned.

“Understatement,” AJ said dryly.

“Was the dog okay?” Peter’s brow was furrowed in concern.  

AJ waved a hand.  “The dog was fine; from what I heard, he got into the garbage and the guy panicked.

“But his face!” Theo gasped.

Peter just laughed along.)

They soon set off again.  This time, the walk felt longer, and Peter felt his energy starting to flag.  He fell behind the group a bit, until AJ fell back too, and chatted with him about their favorite dogs, and told him about their family’s Weimaraner that was utterly convinced it was a lap dog.  Peter told them how he desperately wanted a dog, but their building’s landlord wouldn’t allow it. (“Well, you can come see my dog anytime,” AJ offered. Peter thanked them, but privately thought he’d never see these amazing people again.  The thought hurt, so he didn’t linger over it.)

Nevertheless, Peter’s legs felt about ready to fall off when Theo finally pointed out the trail entrance that would take them into town.

Well, ‘town’ was a generous term.  There was a gas station and small convenience store, a bank, a pub, and a diner with peeling paint.  All surrounded by fields filled with dry corn, and split up the middle by road so filled with potholes it could have passed for the site of a former Avengers battle ground.  Peter couldn’t imagine what driving over that would feel like. His tailbone twinged just thinking about it.

They stopped at the convenience store first; Theo using his credit card to restock the group’s supply of protein bars.  Even Peter got a share, despite his protests about the cost. Everyone in the group turned on their phones, but nobody had service.  

“How can you not have service?” Peter asked, dumbfounded.  

Jace shrugged.  “It’s the middle of nowhere.  Coverage is shitty where there’s not enough people are around to complain about it.”

“That’s insane!”  Peter just couldn’t get over it.  They were practically twenty years into the twenty-first century; it was unthinkable that cell phone coverage wasn’t prevalent everywhere.  He made a mental note to talk to Tony about it, then internally winced. Yeah, never mind.

“Burners still work, for whatever reason,” Jace said, “but I just got rid of mine.”

The group asked the manager if the store had a phone Peter could use, but the teenager manning the counter just rolled his eyes at them.

“Try the diner,” the woman mopping up around the back suggested, shooting a stink eye at the guy slouching at the register.  “The pay phone’s been busted for months; vandals. Not much incentive to get it fixed up. And I don’t have a whole lot of minutes left this month, either, otherwise I’d let you use my cell,” she said, apologetically.

Theo thanked her, and the group set off for the diner across the street.  “It all works out,” Theo grinned, rubbing his hands together. “I’m looking forward to having some more of that meatloaf.”

Jack’s was the kind of place that was stuck in the decades of most people Peter’s age secretly thought of as ‘grandpa times.’  It was well past three, so the only occupants were a older couple in the booth by the door and a backpacker drinking coffee at the bar.  The backpacker raised her mug and grinned at the group as they shuffled, one at a time, into a booth near the back. The older woman of the couple, however, glared at them, holding a handkerchief delicately to her nose.

Peter lifted his good arm and sniffed self-consciously.  Ugh, yeah, they  _ reeked _ .  He shot the woman an apologetic glance, but was disturbed by the heat of the woman’s returning glare; he didn’t think smelling bad warranted that kind of reaction, but he soon forgot all about it when it was his turn to sit.  He sighed in relief at the feeling of a proper seat and backrest. It was hard to feel like life was all that bad when he was so comfortable. It was warm, too. Peter didn’t realize how cold he was, and he shivered as he started to warm up.  The waitress, dressed in collared shirt and frilly apron spared him a wan smile as she brought over menus and plastic cups of water. Peter, sadly, left the menu alone; he didn’t have any money with him. It was stuck being useless back at the facility like the rest of his stuff.

“Aren’t you getting anything?” Jace frowned.

“Not hungry,” Peter muttered, face hot.

“Hey, don’t you dare worry about the money,” Theo admonished.  “I’m paying. Get what you like. This place is pretty cheap, anyways.”

Peter couldn’t help worrying about the cost, but he didn’t protest further; his Uncle Ben had taught him all about being polite, and refusing a gift more than once was in poor taste.  So he took the group at their word and ordered one of the baskets; a burger with fresh cut fries. After the waitress took down everyone’s order, AJ stopped ‘Tina,’ as her name tag said, and asked her if there was a phone they could use.  

“Sure,” she said.  “Follow me.”

Peter slid out of the booth, small pack slung from his good shoulder.  He noticed the older couple had left, and felt a strange wave of relief.  They were just people; what was the big deal? But seriously, if looks could kill, that lady would have carved oles as big as the ones outside out of Peter’s flesh with her pupils.  

Tina took them on a slight detour to submit the order tickets to the kitchen, then showed him to an alcove in the very back that held a payphone and door to a single stall restroom.  Peter took the opportunity to use the facilities first. He was excited to maybe wash his face, but there were no paper towels; only a single fabric hand towel on a rack, like this was someone’s home, and there was no way he was about to mess up the only towel for everyone else.  Plus he was having second thoughts about drying his own hands on it; he had no way of knowing where the thing had been.

Peter shook his hands from soaking to damp over the sink, then carefully maneuvered the door open with his elbows.  Luckily, the phone wasn’t a pay one; he didn’t exactly have any change. It was a corded affair, of the type he wasn’t aware existed outside of museums anymore.  It had been literal years since he’d so much as seen one; his aunt and uncle had owned one when he was younger, until the cable company hiked their rates and they all switched over to cell phones.

He lifted the receiver from the rack, and paused, finger hovering over the punch buttons.  That’s right; he didn’t have his contacts, or speed dial. It took him a moment, but he was able to recall his aunt’s cell number, punching it in and waiting anxiously during the unnaturally long pause.  What if it didn’t connect?

But it did, and Peter’s breath whooshed out when it finally began to ring.  Then his palms started to sweat. How was he supposed to explain this to Aunt May?  He wasn’t sure if she’d be mad, disappointed, or both, or which would be worse. If she came down to pick Peter up, he was sure he’d be sick.  But there was no way the Avengers would pick him up; he was out--

And the phone was still ringing on the other end.  Why? It had been several minutes at this point; what was going on.

“ _ Hello. _ ” Peter nearly sobbed at the sound of his Aunt’s voice.  Everything would be okay now.

“Aunt May--”

“ _ You have reached the voicemail of May Parker.” _

His stomach dropped.

_ “Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I will call you back just as soon as I can.  Have a wonderful day!” _

Peter bit his lip, but after the beep, all he heard was a feminine robotic voice intone, ‘ _ Inbox full,’ _ and he froze.  What was he supposed to do now?

He hung up, and tried again.  A second time.  _ “Please leave your name--”   _ A third.   _ “...voicemail of May Parker…” _  And a fourth.   _ “You have reached--”   _

Peter slammed the receiver back on the hook, and his hands shook in panic.  What was he going to  _ do?!   _ The only person he could call wasn’t picking up, and he couldn’t leave a message, he had no way to reach her, she had no way to call him back.  He needed  _ help… _

Could he call Ned?  No, no he couldn’t. To Peter’s chagrin, he’d never memorized his best friend’s number.  MJ? No, again, no number. Happy? Absolutely not. Plus the same deal with phone numbers.  (Mr. Stark had never actually given Peter his personal number; he explained that it was encrypted so thoroughly that it couldn't be called with just any phone; you needed the encyption key, too.  "And we're not there, yet," Mr. Stark explained.)  


But there was one more number Peter could try, one he’d had memorized since that disastrous meeting with his idol at the age of seven.  He’d tried it over and over then, afterwards, trying to say ‘thank you’ for the help, but it had always been busy.

Peter didn’t think the man would help him now even if he did manage to get through.  But what other choice did he have?

So though his hopes weren’t high, he punched in 1-800-STARKIN anyways.

It rang.  Peter bit his lip.  Anxiety dug its claws in deep, so deep his scalp was kind of...tingly. 

The call connected.  Peter jumped.

“Hello?” he said.  

_ ‘Hello _ ,’ intoned a robotic female voice.   _ ‘Thank you for calling Stark Industries.  Press one for English--’ _

Peter jammed the zero button, hoping it would take him to a human operator.  The tingling was getting worse; wait, tingling? Was that his spider sense? But why would it be going off  _ here,  _ of all places?

“Good afternoon, this is--” Peter heard a courteous male voice speak on the other end as he replaced the phone carefully on the hook, straining his advanced ears for any sign of trouble.  He’d call back later after he figured out what was setting him off. He didn’t  _ hear  _ anything that meant trouble, necessarily, but that didn’t mean much.

He peeked his head around the corner, just in time to see a Tina pointing a pair of police officers down the hallway.

*********

Peter slumped in relief.  It was probably just them; they had handguns, and guns of any form could still set him off after what happened with...yeah.  

But then the shorter man of the pair locked cold, dark eyes with Peter’s own, and his spider sense jolted.   _ Shit _ .

But they were still the police.  Even small town officers swore an oath to protect and serve, Peter was pretty sure, and they’d already seen him.

“Good afternoon, officers,” he said, and his voice only shook a little.  

But the shorter one’s eyes only grew darker and colder, and he drew his handgun in one swift motion.  Peter froze.

“Hands where I can see them!” he barked, and Peter threw his right hand in the air without thinking.

“Both hands!” the guy yelled.

“I can’t,” Peter said, barely a whisper, frozen in absolute terror.  “Please. My arm--”

“Chief,” the younger, taller, frecklier, officer said.  “Could you maybe put the gun away? He’s just--”

“Stay  _ out  _ of this, Stanley.  I said hands up!” ‘Chief’ barked, jerking his gun roughly to where Peter’s arm was trapped in the makeshift sling, under the hoodie.

Peter curled in on himself as much as possible while keeping his shaking right hand high in the air.  “But I--” he made himself say, a bit louder despite not having enough air, he couldn’t think, could breathe…

“Resisting arrest!” the Chief crowed, and Stanley shot Peter a pleading look.  It said,  _ Just do as he says.  Please. I can’t help you if you don’t follow directions _ .

_ I can’t _ , Peter tried to make his eyes say back.   _ Please, I can’t. _

Some of his message must have gotten through, because Stanley’s eyes widened, with realization and concern.  “Chief, I really don’t think--”

Chief let out a roar, and  _ charged.   _

And Peter  _ ran. _

He barely got a step before there were two adult bodies on top of him, and he fell, vision going white as they jarred his arm and he  _ screamed. _

Half blind with pain and terror, he felt his good elbow connect with something soft, and then he was barreling sideways through the kitchen door and there was heat and yelling and confusion and hands, grabbing, got to break free--

Then cold air hit his face, and he ran even faster, bag clutched in his good hand, as he barreled forward without sight.  Without direction. Without thought.

Save one.

 

_ Get away. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary after the ***********:  
> "Peter's spider sense tingles while he is trying to call Stark Industries. He puts the phone back and, investigating, sees two police officers; the older chief and his young deputy. At first, Peter relaxes, since police officers carry guns and sometimes people carrying guns can set off his spider sense (he is vague about when/why). Then the chief threatens Peter, pulling out his gun and instructs him to put his hands up. Peter can only put up one, since the other is trapped underneath his shirt, in the sling. The deputy tries to intervene on Peter's behalf, but the chief doesn't listen, and uses Peter's noncompliance as resisting arrest. He tackles Peter, hurting Peter's arm and causing the boy to panic. He is able to get the man off of him, and escapes the diner through the kitchen, then runs like crazy."
> 
> I am very sorry. I wrote this a long time ago, and completely forgot about this part when I was making initial tags. There was a very good reason for this scene to exist, otherwise I wouldn’t have gone so far. I promise that after this point, things don't get quite this dark again. Peter will still have a hard time, of course, but not quite to this horrifying extent. The next chapter is almost as bad, however, but expect things to get lighter after that. Please let me know if you think I need to add any more tags, or increase the severity of the rating.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Don’t worry, the next chapter will be up later today!


	5. Alone Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things still aren't great for Peter, just to warn you. At least this chapter's short. As usual, please check the tags. I don't think there's any new ones for this chapter, though.
> 
> Enjoy!

Peter had no way of knowing how long he ran.  Or to where. He wasn’t sure when this became a pattern in his life, or how to make it stop.

All he knew was that when he finally came up for air, the afternoon was half gone, sun lower than it felt like it should be in the sky, a reminder of the fast-approaching winter.  And he was alone again.

He wasn’t sure where he was, exactly; there were a lot of trees (God, was he sick of trees).  But that was less than helpful in an area where that seemed to be all there was. Nothing but trees and shadows and Peter alone with boots he couldn’t take off no matter how much his feet burned like they were bathed in chemicals.  Those must be the blisters the students were talking about.

He didn’t know what to _do._  He desperately wanted to rejoin his new friends.  Theo. AJ. Jace. But he didn’t dare go back to the diner.  Even if he could figure out where it was. And with the police sure to be looking for him, he couldn’t even venture into town again to find a phone.  He’d been so close too; someone had picked up at SI.

Or had he?  Who was to say that any conversation he’d have over the phone would have lead anywhere?  He wasn’t part of the Avengers anymore, and Peter had screwed up so bad, he didn’t think Mr. Stark would want anything to do with him.  And anyway, what would he have told the receptionist? That he was a Stark Industries Intern, and that he desperately needed to speak with Tony Stark himself?  ‘Please, it’s urgent, he’s stuck a state away and needs someone to pick him up?’ Yeah, right. It was a stupid idea. He was stupid. He couldn’t blame himself for trying, though, not really.  

As he picked a direction and started walking, he was overcome with an awful sense of deja vu.  But this time was even worse. Now that he had had a taste of company, now that he knew how much hiking could be, trudging through the woods with nothing to distract him from blisters and fatigue and the awful silence was a special kind of torture.

His spirits lifted somewhat when he encountered a blaze on a tree; Jace had taught him which ones meant what, after all, and the familiarity was reassuring.  He easily found the one indicating the northbound trail, and hoped distantly that his new friends might be going the same direction and meet him later.

But as the hours slogged by, and he encountered no one, he started to lose hope.  He did see one or two families, but the adults avoided his eye and hustled their children away as quickly as they could.  Peter wasn’t sure if it was the smell of going without a shower to long, or if he looked a bit crazy, with his greasy hair and shaking hand.  It was probably both, at this point. Peter certainly felt a bit crazy.

It was strange.  Being alone in the middle of nowhere wasn’t the same as being alone in the city.  Sure, in the city, Peter may be walking by himself more often than not, but he was constantly surrounded by people.  Their colors, and noises, and sights, and smells, laughter and words and _life_.  The woods weren’t like that.  The forest was brown, and green, and the scents were deeper.  Older. Something ancient, that predated humans and would probably outlive them.  Indifferent to his existence, or lack thereof. There was no warmth here, only cold, and wind, and the promise of death for the careless and naive and unlucky.  

Peter hated it.  Peter hated being alone.  Being alone in body meant more freedom to wander in mind.  And that could be a dangerous thing, indeed.

The light started to fade.  Peter scarcely noticed, eyes on the ground and concentrating on moving his dragging feet one step at a time, just one more and the next, until his spider sense alerted him just in time to walk face-first into a low-hanging pine bough.  He scowled, rubbing the sting away with his good hand, and paused. Took a look around, and realized just how dark it had gotten. A bolt of fear lanced through him; how was he going to spend the night? He couldn’t sleep on the ground, he knew that much from his time with the others.  The ground would leach the heat from his body straight through his clothes, and he could freeze with how cold it was getting at night. He could try to get to another town, but they seemed spread out, and besides, the police were probably searching for him. Peter couldn’t have gotten that far on his aching feet.  

But there might be an alternative; Jace had mentioned trail shelters, places for hikers to stay the night.  And Theo had mentioned how they all had stayed in one the night before, so Peter might not be too far off, if he was going in the right direction.  In the end, he had little choice; he walked on.

It was just getting seriously difficult to see even his feet when Peter spotted a light in the distance.  Could it be? He picked his way over the cleaned trail floor faster, then a bit faster, then as fast as he could without face planting and found it; small, open cabin, with a fire built in front.  And there was plenty of room, he could definitely stay here!

 

“You can’t stay here,” a guy with a sharp undercut barked at Peter before he could even open his mouth to ask.  “We were here first. Keep moving.”

“But there’s plenty of room,” Peter squeaked, shocked by the abrupt refusal.  The shelter was fairly large; it could comfortably sleep six, and there were only three of these guys. 

“You got any food?” Another guy came up behind the first, and Undercut just flared his nostrils at him exasperated.

“Um,” Peter said, “I’ve got a couple of protein bars?”  As he said it, his stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t had a chance to eat with the others before he had to run.  That hamburger sounded amazing right about now.

“Let me see,” the second guy demanded, holding out a hand impatiently.  Peter rifled around in his bag, grabbing one and handing it to the guy. The guy just stuck in his pocket and wandered back to the fire.  Peter sighed in relief and started to follow, but the first guy just stuck an arm out, hitting him roughly in the chest and jostling Peter’s arm.  A spike of rage pulsed in Peter’s chest.

“What?” Peter snapped.  He’d paid their fee.

Undercut just raised his eyebrows.  “I just said you couldn’t stay here.  You stupid or something?”

“But...he asked for food, and I gave it to him-”

“Yeah, Josh is always hungry,” Undercut rolled his eyes.  “Doesn’t have anything to do with the question of you staying the night.  Beat it.”

Peter squared his chest.  “Then give me the bar back.”  Food was precious out here. He couldn’t let it go to waste on these assholes if they weren’t going to let him stay.

The three guys just laughed at him.  Undercut wiped imaginary tears from his eyes.  “You really _are_ stupid.  Give it up, kid.  It’s three against one.  Or are you bad at math, too?”

Peter gritted his teeth, but took one more shot.  “I’m pretty good at math, actually. Geometry, for example.  Enough to know that even if you all were six inches taller and wider than you actually are, there would be more than enough surface area for me to fit on the floor without touching any of you.”  He forced his voice into a slightly gentler tone. “ I won’t be in your way, and I’ll give you the rest of my food. Please.”

The third one got to his feet, cracking his knuckles, and smirked.  “I’ve got a better idea. How about you give us the bag, and we let you walk away in one piece?”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Peter said to no one in particular.  Screw this, Peter was done. He turned back to the bullies. “You’d think a state away, bullies would have some original content for me, but nope.  Guess assholes are the same no matter where you go.” Peter backed away as the others advanced, cocking his head cheekily. “Guys, come on, I really don’t want to fight.  I’m _tired_ , I was hiking all day.  Aren’t you tired?”

“Yeah,” Josh said.  “Tired of you. Get him!”

“ _Seriously_ ?  I thought your lines couldn’t get any worse, but I was _wrong_ ,” Peter said, easily dodging Undercut’s grab, and ducking under Knuckles’ swing.  If it lacked his usual grace, sue him; his blisters had blisters. It was actually playing to his advantage, his clumsiness mistaken for ineptitude, lulling the brutes into a false sense of security.  It kept them advancing, drawn ever further away from the fire and into the dark forest. Check.

“You guys really have me on the ropes, here.  Huh, kind of sounded like Captain America for a moment, didn’t I?  What would I do if I was Cap?” Peter mused out loud. He mimed rubbing his chin, dodging increasingly frustrated grabs with ease.  “Sloppy, sloppy,” he tsked, then smirked. “Oh, yeah, I’d probably do something like _this!”_

With that, he braced his back foot, rotated to the side, gracefully kicked Knuckles (easily the most dangerous, and over 6 feet tall to boot) in the face, finished his rotation and hit the ground running.

Huh, that clumsiness shtick worked like a charm.  He’d have to remember that trick for later.

Peter barely registered the enraged roars behind him as he sprinted off trail, completely focused on the ground below, all thoughts on _rock, root, jump, duck!_ He fell into a rhythm despite how awkward it was to run one-armed, dodging and jumping at speeds that weren’t quite achievable for the average human.  Not up to his usual standard, but all his time on the trail had gotten him used to navigating obstacles common to the forest floor. Even exhausted, Peter’s enhanced senses and reflexes gave him a significant edge, and the dark lent him the freedom to use his enhanced abilities.  So it wasn’t long before the cursing had faded away, and all he could hear was the blood roaring in his ears.

He slowed, bending over and bracing his arm on his leg as he caught his breath.  The roaring in his ears faded, and the forest sounds started to take over again.

He was safe.  Peter laughed.  That was fun; he’d needed that after the day he had.

“I might have lied.  It was a tactical retreat, sure, but Cap would never have run away.”  Peter’s mirth faded as quickly as it came, and his face fell as his mind supplied the unspoken implication:

_I’m certainly no Captain America._

Peter looked around, his mood souring as the reality of his situation set in.  Once again, he was alone in the dark, at night, cold and injured with no hope of rescue.  At least he knew where he was this time. Kind of. And it was Friday, one day closer to Aunt May realizing he was gone.  Peter winced. Yeah, he’d rather think about something else.

What else was different?  He was even more tired, if that was possible.  More blistery. His arm was starting to itch to compliment the ache.  And the sweatpants he was given were soaked uncomfortably with sweat rather than water.  Peter shuddered, from disgust and cold. And he knew where shelter was this time, not that he could use it.

“Ughh, whyyy,” Peter groaned, throwing his head back.  He stared at the moon, bright and almost full above his head.  The stars always reminded him of his Uncle Ben, of the time he’d taken Peter to the science museum to use the big telescope. Wished Uncle Ben could be here, see how amazing the stars looked out here.  He’d been thinking about him a lot lately, more than he’d thought about him continuously in the time since his death.

With a jolt, Peter realized it was almost  two years since the man’s untimely death now, just another victim of violent crime, according to the news.  A statistic. Bile rose in Peter’s throat. Uncle Ben wasn’t a statistic to him, but he’d been so busy, he’d barely given the man a second thought in the chaotic jumble his life had become.  What kind of nephew was he?

“I’m sorry, Uncle Ben,” Peter told the moon.  “I promise, I really do miss you. Not that I have a right to.”  The ache was sharper, out here. Everything was, the air, the needles, and the light from the stars that glimmered impassively, in a way that was less menacing than the indifference of the forest.  Their impartial observation made talking easier, somehow. Peter chuckled ruefully. “Can’t help but be a bit glad that you’re not here, now, though. See what a mess I’ve become. Not a scientist, or, or a good person...just a mess.  Just a stupid-”

Peter’s voice broke, and a tear started to slip down his cheek.  He scrubbed it away savagely. No. He wouldn’t fall apart here; he couldn’t.  He had more important things to worry about. Like surviving the night.

His brow furrowed.  Walking to keep warm wasn’t appealing; he’d completely lost the trail in his rush, and it wouldn’t be worth the risk to bumble around in the dark.  Some of the terrain around here was pretty rough. Large slippery rocks and hidden holes were common, and the absolute last thing he needed at this point was a busted ankle.  Honestly, running like he did had been enough stupidity for one night. Not to mention he was _tired._ Walking was out.

Sleeping sounded better, but at this point, he didn’t have a hope of finding shelter.  So he’d have to make the best of what he had.

What he had was a backpack and a bunch of trees.  He found a sturdy one with wide branches, and used his grippy fingertips to help him haul himself up the trunk one-handed.  Even so, it was a struggle, with the burn in his legs and booted feed, but he managed. He was only about eight feet up, but it would stop any critters from crawling up his sweater.  Snakes for example. And it would keep bigger things from sniffing around. Plus, it got him off the ground; that would conserve body heat, keep him warmer. Maybe tomorrow he could strip open his busted suit and try to get the heating working manually, somehow.  

But for now, the branch he was settled on would have to do.  He leaned back against the truck, using his backpack as a cushion for the small of his back.  After a quick dinner of a protein bar that he swore left him hungrier than before, he settled back and tried to ignore all the annoying bodily sensations that were standing between him and sleep.

Fuzzy teeth; he hadn’t brushed his teeth in like two days, and of all the things he missed, he never thought his toothbrush would be near the top of the list.  Dry socks were up there, too; his feet were soaked with sweat, but the absolute last thing he wanted to do when he was this cold was take his shoes off. The trunk against his back was all kinds of uncomfortable; there was a knot digging into the back of his head and the bark was sharp, cutting into his hands and head.  But he didn’t dare shift on the branch, and was too tired to find another.

He hovered between wakefulness and sleep for awhile, checking his balance, the hours slipping away in dull not-quite silence and exhaustion.  The animal noises were less unpleasant, this time. It was kind of cool, being above it all. There was hooting, a screeing sound, something clicked, and occasionally there would be a random warble.  Each had its own pattern, unconcerned with the actions of every other participant. Discordant noises, when you listened long enough, harmonized and became slightly hypnotic as the dark hours of the night crawled along.  Peter’s eyes itched, and his head ached. He kept tasting that protein bar, and it was nasty. His eyelids were just so heavy, he’d let them rest for a second or two.

 

<<>>

 

Looking back, Peter didn’t think he actually fell asleep during that time, but he remembered being roused vaguely by a deep feeling of discomfort.  And crackling leaves. But he _really_ didn’t want to acknowledge that discomfort just yet, so he willed himself to slip back under, back where it all didn’t hurt quite so much.  Just drifting...nice...and... 

CRACK!

A gunshot shattered the tenuous peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger again. Don't worry too much; Peter isn't the one mentioned in the "Major Character Death" tag. The next chapter may be out tonight, but it will more likely be out tomorrow; updates will slow down a bit during the work week. We're about halfway there!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. The Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new warnings this chapter. Enjoy!!

That sound.  It was a sound that Peter had never particularly liked as a kid, but didn’t particularly hate either.  He’d be out walking with his aunt and uncle, and the a car would backfire, just like the noise he heard in movies.  It would make him jump, and Uncle Ben would just laugh it off.

Peter didn’t actually know what a gun sounded like for real until _that_ night.  The night that changed his life forever, lived on in his nightmares.  Worse; the nightmare wouldn’t be real if it hadn’t been for Peter. It was his fault.  All his fault.

BANG and screaming red and metal and _thump_ and sirens and salt and linen and rain...in his nose and eyes and fingertips and _that sound_ and that scream doesn’t end and he was drowning, in a sea of red and guilt, couldn’t breathe.  He couldn’t breathe! Falling into the pit of his grief and guilt.

His back hit something. Hard.  

Then nothing.

…

 

<<>>

 

Peter groaned as light hit his eyelids.  God, his _head._ Why couldn’t he just wake up in peace, for once?  He brought his free hand up, but hissed as it pulled the abused muscles of his back and neck.  Was he...laying down? He distinctly remembered sitting somewhere last night… and the thing was...kind of soft?  And he was missing something...his bag!

Peter cracked one cautious eye open.

“You’re awake!”  A shrill voice cut stabbed his brain, and he couldn’t hold back another groan.  Ugh, his throat.

“Where am I?” he managed, throat and tongue unpleasantly dry.

“On our couch!  I made you a card!”  A little girl with dark curly hair in pigtails bounced excitedly, and put a piece of paper on Peter’s chest.  “Daddy shot you, ‘cause he thought you were a turkey, ‘cause you were sitting in a tree like one,” the girl whispered too loudly to Peter, cupping her hands like she was letting him in on a super juicy secret.  “Then the turnkey fell out of the tree, ‘cause it was dead, and that’s just what dead things do. But then I said to Daddy, ‘Daddy, I didn’t know turkeys had backpacks, I thought only kids had backpacks because turkeys can’t go to school.’  Then Daddy said a bad word, and carried you to our pickup truck, and I got you my second favorite blanket, and made you the card. Why aren’t you reading it? Don’t you like it?” She stuck her bottom lip out in a pout.

Peter’s eyes widened in panic, seeing the space around him for the first time.  The walls were made of wood, and covered in horrifying decorations. Glassy eyes stared at him from all directions, disembodied animal heads of all types staring out into nowhere at nothing.  He hunched forward over his knees so he wouldn’t have to see, but he could still feel the weight of their stares. Peter felt his chest tighten, panic clawing its way to the surface once again.

Peter remembered now.  Kind of. He remembered the loud crack of a gun and falling, remembered all the air whooshing out of his lungs, pain erupting from his back and head and arm and tongue, crunchy footsteps and foreign hands and frantic voices and he _couldn’t breathe._  Being maneuvered, then moved.  The rumble of a car. Then nothing.

“Hold up a minute, Em, let the poor guy get his bearings,” a voice rumbled.  Then a warm hand was on his back. “Just relax, son.” Peter realized that his chest was tight, his ears ringing.  “Come on now, deep breaths. Just breathe through it. You’re okay, just had a scare is all. Happens to the best of us.”  The hand was rubbing in circles; sweat dripped down Peter’s forehead, but air was coming easier now. “Em, you want to grab a cup of water for me?”

“Okay!” the girl exclaimed eagerly, and _Daddy shot you_ echoed in Peter’s head.  His hand grasped at his chest, pulling the blanket down and feeling around.  He was sore, sure, but nowhere was particularly painful (Except his arm, of course, but that was old news).  The hand on his back withdrew, and Peter lifted his head, coming face to face with crinkly brown eyes and a scraggly beard.

“Guess Em filled you in,” the man chuckled ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Emily, I mean. My daughter. She’s a stinker. At that age where she only focuses on the details she finds interesting.  Guess the part where I found out I didn’t actually hit you didn’t qualify.”

“But you _said_ you shot him!” Emily pouted as she bounced into the room, a pink cup sloshing water down the sides.  

“I _thought_ I shot him Em, but we checked up on him, remember?  No blood?” The man reminded his daughter.

She brightened.  “Oh yeah!”

The man smiled at his daughter, before turning back to Peter.  “I didn’t do much,” he reassured him, “Didn’t even take your shirt off, just made sure you didn’t have a hole in you, or break your neck on the way down.  You did fall quite a ways, though; might have hit your head. You feel alright, any nausea? You do remember what happened, right?”

Peter chuckled bitterly.  “Yeah, I remember. Heard the gun and panicked.  I’m okay.”

The man looked relieved for a moment, before his face switched over to something exasperated, anger coloring his tone.  “What the _hell_ were you doing up in a tree in the wee hours of the morning wearing dark clothes during turkey season!?  Were you _trying_ to get yourself--”

Peter flinched, and the man stopped dead, pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.  He turned to Emily, who was staring up at him with wide eyes. “Honey, could you do me a favor?”

She blinked.  “Of course, Daddy.”

He smiled at her.  “Would you mind playing in your room for a little bit?  I need to talk with…what’s your name?”

“Um, I’m Peter.”

“John,” the man said, holding out a hand that Peter took out of habit.  They shook. John’s hands were rough, cracked and calloused. They scraped Peter’s hand like sandpaper, dwarfing them comically.  Then John turned back to Emily. “I need to talk to Peter. Just me and him, okay?”

Emily pouted, but said.  “Yes, Daddy.” She turned to Peter.  “Will you play with me?”

“Em,” John sighed.

Peter blinked, bewildered.  “Uh, sure.”

“Come on!” she said, running up to Peter to yank on his hand.

“Later,” John said firmly, walking over to her.  “Go on,” he took her gently by the shoulders and steered her back towards the hallway.  “Get.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going!  Bye, Peter!” she giggled, running down the hall, the pit-pat of her feet echoing across the hard wood.  Peter raised a hand belatedly in a wave.

The smile melted off John’s face, and the grooves of his forehead deepened.  He looked about as tired as Peter felt as he pulled over a chair from the computer desk, and took a seat as across from Peter as he could.  “Sorry about her,” John said, crooking a thumb over his shoulder. “You don’t have to play with her later, you know. She’ll probably pass out on the floor in a few anyways; she’s normally asleep by now."

“What time is it?” Peter asked voice crackling, levering himself up a bit more to lean on the arm of the couch.  It was old, with sagging springs, but it was heaven on his back after two nights spent outdoors. He enjoyed the give, bouncing a little on his way up.  

John reached over and grabbed the cup of water Emily had brought over, handing it to Peter.  Peter drank gratefully. “Just about half past five. In the morning,” he clarified.

Peter handed the cup back, glancing around the room again.  The animal heads were creepy, and he had no idea how anyone could possibly sleep at night knowing they were there.  But the rest of the space was pretty cozy. A threadbare loveseat and armchair to match the well-loved couch, and all had thick blankets draped over the backs.  A plush round rug was warming in front of a crackling fireplace, and photos were displayed proudly on the mantle.

When Peter looked back, the man was considering him, eyes intent.  Peter shifted; John was hard to read, and the level of scrutiny the man was directing at him was unnerving.  “What sort of trouble are you in, Peter?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Peter huffed.

John chuckled a bit.  “Sorry to burst your bubble, kid, but it’s pretty obvious.”  The mans sobered completely. “So who is it? Family member? Family friend?  Teacher?”

“Huh?” Peter asked, thoroughly lost now.  

John’s face hardened.  “I’ve been around the block a few times, kid.  It ain’t that easy to bruise your own face. And you arm was busted before you fell out of that tree.  Add the panic attack to all that...” He leaned forward. “So who is it? I promise you, we can get this figured out.  Just trying to figure out how many towns we’ve got to bypass before we try the police.”

“Police?” Peter yelped.  He put his hand up. “Wait, no.  You don’t understand!”

“What’s there to understand?”  John’s eyes hardened. “Don’t try to tell me you hurt yourself falling down.”

Peter blinked.  “But I did hurt myself falling down.  Well,” he amended as John scowled at him, “the arm, at least.”

“Didn’t get the shiner that way, though,” John said.

“Ah, no, that was...someone else,” Peter rubbed the back of his neck.  “It was my fault, though. I promise. I should've done better, I messed up.  Surprised him.”

John’s lips thinned.  “Shouldn't matter. You just tell me how far, and I'll get you away from whoever it is.”

“No no, wait, I...argh, this is hard.”  Peter ran a hand through his hair in aggravation.

John softened just a bit.  “I know, kid, I’m sorry. Might be easier if you just get it off your chest, but if it’s really too much, I won't push you.  Not yet, at least.”

Peter’s hand twitched, itching to wring it with the other, but he settled for picking at the blanket instead.  He had an idea what John was thinking, and it was way off. He had to explain, somehow. Peter knew he had an identity to protect, but John was being so understanding, words were soon falling out of his mouth without his permission.

“I knew what I was getting into, though, really!  Well, mostly,” Peter said. He licked his lips. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he was committed now.  Plus, the longer he waited, the more suspicious John would get that Peter was hiding something worse. He was a _terrible_ liar, but he might just be able to get away with half-truths.  “It’s just, I had a training exercise for, uh, self-defense, but I messed up really bad.  And, um, I s-scared one of my teachers so bad he had a panic attack. I used a dirty trick, and that’s when he hit me.  It was my fault. Then my mentor yelled, and I ran. I heard them talking, after. They, ah, I’m not...welcome there, anymore,” Peter bit his lip, shame crawling sickly from his stomach and sitting at the back of his throat, his eyes prickling.  “I’m sorry, I just..it was really important to me. Training with them. I couldn’t stay there, and I tried to hitch a ride home, but I stayed on too long. Hurt my arm getting off, and now I’m _really_ far from home.”

John still eyed him with some suspicion; Peter had been incredibly vague.  But there was sympathy there too, and a lot of the urgency had bled out of his posture.  “Your folks know where you are? Were you able to call?” John asked.

“I used a phone at a diner, yesterday.  But I couldn’t get through, and my aunt’s--uh, I mean my guardian’s--voicemail was full.”  Peter bounced his leg. “That’s why I’ve got to get going. I’ve gotta get back before the weekend’s up.  Ever since,” he gulped, “um, she worries, is all, and this is my mess.” He squared his shoulders. “So I’ve got to be the one who cleans it up.”

John was quiet for a long couple of moments, then rubbed his face and sighed.  “Alright, kid. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to try to get in touch with your guardian again.  Then you’re going to take a shower, and sleep for a bit. I’m...honestly not sure what to do with you. Need to think.  I’ll wake you up for breakfast,” he said, and offered a hand up.

Peter took it, swaying a bit as he got to his feet, disoriented for a moment.  John steadied him. “You’re having some juice while you make that call,” he said decisively, leading Peter into the kitchen after he had regained his balance.  “Apple or orange?’’

 

<>

 

Peter sipped his OJ while he tried to gather the courage to press send, John’s outdated StarkPhone clutched in his hand.  John had gone to set up the spare room. Peter saw that it was mostly an excuse to give him some privacy, and he was grateful.  

He took a deep breath, then punched the green button.  He held his breath, but it didn’t even ring this time, skipped straight to voicemail.  He got to the very end, melancholy gripping him at the sound of his aunt’s voice, but he just got the bland ‘inbox full’ message.  He could have cried, but he tried one more time. Nothing. And there was no way he was trying Stark Industries’ line again; that was just stupid.

John came back in just as Peter ended the third fruitless call with a heavy sigh.  “No luck?”

“No,” Peter said, eyes downcast. 

“Shower next,” John said crisply.  He showed Peter the guest room, the hustled him into the bathroom.  He helped Peter out of his borrowed (who was he kidding, he was never going to be able to give it back) hoodie and shirt, untied the field sling and unwrapped the makeshift splint.  Peter hissed as it came free, shoulder sore from being held in one position for so long, and the skin tender from chafing. But it was nothing compared to the bruising, dark and angry.  

“Jesus, kid,” John said.  “You should get that looked at.”

“Yeah,” Peter said ruefully.  “Have to wait until I get home for that.  Can’t just go to a hospital here.” Peter froze.  Shit. Shouldn’t have said that.

John looked at him knowingly.  “Didn’t have your insurance cards on you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Peter said.  He could have collapsed with relief.  “Yep, that’s definitely why, haha.” Not because he had super healing and an identity to protect, nope.  Not him.

 

John looked at him strangely, but left Peter to his shower.  And, oh. It was _amazing._  Peter didn’t think he’d ever had a shower feel this good in his entire life, he could have collapsed in ecstasy when the hot water washed over his back, burning until his extremities warmed up a bit.  He carefully washed himself , only jostling his arm a bit. He wished he could live in here. But sadly, hot water was limited, and it would be incredibly rude to use it all up. When he got out, his clothes were gone, but there was a large towel and an oversized set of clothes laid out for him on the counter.  There was a set of pajama pants (with a drawstring, thankfully) and a sweatshirt that Peter swam in, slipping down to reveal his collar bones. It was warm, though. 

He practically collapsed into the guest room’s bed.  Ugh, he was in _heaven._ He let himself sink down, and willed sleep to take him.  He waited. And waited. But the pipes rattled strangely, and the sky was just lightening outside, and he just...couldn’t.  He laid there, frustrated, until…  


 

A door slammed, and he woke up, his head as fuzzy as his mouth.  Ugh. He took care of his bodily needs (forget cell phones and the internet and the Gutenberg press; indoor bathrooms were the most important innovation _ever_ , as far as Peter was concerned), then ventured out to the kitchen.  Emily sat coloring, while John was pursing his lips at a sheath of paper and a calculator.  Bills, Peter assumed. 

Emily spotted him first, head whipping up at the sound of his footsteps.  “Yay!” she yelled. Peter jumped. “We can play now!”

John chuckled.  “Hang on a second, Em.”  He looked over Peter assessingly.  “You didn’t sleep very long. How are you feeling?”

Peter shrugged.  He didn’t feel _great_ , but he’d felt worse.  “Pretty okay,” he said, taking the seat and the open granola bar John handed him.  “What time is it? Thanks,” he added, as the man put a very full glass of juice in front of him along with a bottle of off-brand painkillers.  

“About half past ten,” The man said, sitting beside Peter, and waited until he was halfway through his juice while Emily bounced impatiently, before saying, “Em, Mrs. Neely’s going to be over for a bit this morning.”

“No!” the girl pouted, sitting down hard with a huff.  

“Emily,” John said patiently.

Emily huffed.  “She’s no fun,” she grumbled.  

“I’ve just got to run a few errands.   _Adult_ things,” he added, cutting off a protest from Emily about how she _liked_ errands.  “Boring stuff, it’ll be out of the way faster if I go on my own.  Peter, your clothes are still in the drier. They should be done in half an hour or so,” he said, and then the doorbell rang.

“That would be her,” he said, excusing himself from the table so he could answer the door.

Emily pouted from her seat, until her father called for her.  She trudged back out into the living room. Peter trailed after her, unsure what he was supposed to do.  He saw his bag sitting beside the couch, and shouldered it, the anxious knot in his stomach loosening somewhat with it back in his grasp.  John was chuckling something the woman at the door said. Her face was careworn, and a strand of salt and pepper hair fell in her face.

“I brought y’all some late season potatoes,” she was saying, hefting a bag over her shoulder.  And another doll for Emmie here,” she smiled at Emily.

“What do we say,” John prompted.

“Thank you,” Emily said dutifully, taking the doll by its long blond hair, letting it dangle at her side, and looked longingly at her father.

John chuckled.  “Okay, you can go play now,” he smiled at her.

Emily cheered, and ran over to Peter, looking ready to grab him.  He rotated so his good arm was out. “Come on!” she bounced, grabbing his hand.  Peter allowed himself to be dragged. He shot a questioning look over his shoulder, and John nodded.

“Good to meet you!”  Mrs. Neely called. Peter heard John chuckle, and say, “That’s Peter,” before Emily was shoving him into a bean bag chair and slamming the door shut.  She irreverently tossed the doll into the back of her closet. Peter followed it’s path; there was a small stack back there.

“Wow, you sure have a lot of those,” he observed.

Emily wrinkled her nose.  “Yeah,” she huffed. “Presents are nice, but Neely only gives me _dolls_ ,” she spat, saying ‘dolls’ like it was something she’d scrape off the bottom of her shoe.  “When Daddy says the body count gets too big, we put them all in a bag and I get to stuff them in the box for other kids.”

Peter struggled to hold a straight face.  “So you don’t like dolls, huh?” he asked, trying to find a comfortable way to sit; the beanbag had no back support, and he sunk straight through to the floor.

“No,” Emily pouted.  “They’re just so _boring_.”

“What _do_ you like to play with, then?”  Peter asked.

Emily brightened.  “I color and paint, but Daddy says those are table-only toys,” she said, a bit sadly.  “Then there’s my inside plants. I’ll show you!” She hauled Peter out of the beanbag chair, and drug him out to the living room window.  Mrs. Neely waved at them with a grin on her face as Emily introduced Peter to Cacti the cactus, Spidey the spider plant, and Joe.

“Joe’s an aloe plant,” she informed him.

“Why ‘Joe?’” Peter asked.

“He’s practical,” she said, shooting him a look that said, ‘duh!’

“See you later?”  Mrs. Neely asked mildly as Emily pulled Peter back to the room again.  Peter shrugged at the woman, who grinned at him. Emily was a force of nature; she was pretty strong for her age, and Peter thought that if he wasn’t enhanced, he might have had his shoulder yanked from the socket by now.

“But this is my favorite toy,” she stage-whispered, pulling a medium bin out from under her bin.  Inside was a snap circuits kit. Peter’s eyebrows rose; it was really cool, he’d seen one in physics class in middle school.  He’d always longed for the chance to play around with it. “This is my birthday and Christmas gift _together_ ,” she said, patting it fondly.  “I was real good all year, Daddy said so,” she bragged.

“Wow,” Peter grinned.  “That’s really cool! Want to show me how to work this thing?”

So she did, explaining all the parts, how the pieces went on the board, and what configurations to avoid to avoid burning out the batteries.  Peter found himself questioning his assumptions about her age. She brought out the projects book, and they worked through a few of them, Emily meticulously checking them off as they went with her pink and purple gel pens.  

Before Peter knew it, John was knocking at the door, asking to borrow Peter.  “We can play more later,” Peter promised. Emily just nodded, focused intently on the project John had interrupted.

“How old is she?” Peter couldn’t help but ask as he followed John back to the living room.  He looked around. “Where’s Mrs. Neely?”

“Went home.  And Em’s six as of September,” the man said, running his free hand through his cropped hair.  The other gripped a plastic pharmacy bag.

Peter gaped.  John chuckled.  “I know, right? She’s crazy smart; takes after her mother,” he sighed, gesturing for Peter to take a seat, while he dug out a generic wrist brace and a sling.  

Peter winced.  He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that money wasn’t exactly in abundance in this household, and those things weren’t cheap.  “Oh, it’s okay, sir, I don’t need those,” Peter rambled.

John just shot Peter an exasperated look.  “With all due respect son, just take it. Didn’t your folks teach you to accept help when you need it? ”

Peter colored in shame.  “He did,” Peter said quietly.

John sighed.  He held up the brace, gave Peter a questioning glance, and Peter reluctantly nodded his consent.  As John helped him into the brace, the man said, quietly, “How long?”

“Huh?” Peter asked, jolted out of his melancholy reverie.  

The corner of John’s mouth tightened.  “How long, since you lost him?”

“Oh,” Peter said.  He was quiet, until John finished doing the velcro up.  “Two years ago,” he finally whispered, rubbing his arm. “It was my fault,” he choked, as the man walked away to grab Peter’s clothes from the dryer.  The man hesitated, then walked back to the couch, and sat beside Peter.

“You miss him?” he asked, face staring ahead.

Peter swallowed.  “Yeah. Don’t deserve to.  If I had just...Uncle Ben might--” he choked.  “But I can’t help but miss him anyway.” His voice broke.  John patted him on the shoulder, and got up, walking out of the room.

Peter sniffed, and angrily rubbed away a few of the tears as he shut down that train of thought.

Peter startled when the man reentered the space, and helped Peter into a t-shirt.  “It’s been six years since I lost my Amelia,” he said, quietly. “Miss her everyday.  I blame myself, because she wasn’t real excited when we got the news about Emily coming along.  But I was _ecstatic,_ and then she got excited, too.”  He brought over the sling. “If I had just kept my mouth shut, my wife might still be alive, today.”

“Oh,” Peter said.  “But that was her choice.  Wasn’t it?”

“Exactly,” John smiled sadly.  Peter blinked. “She knew the risks.  We both did, and she chose to go through with it anyway.  And I wouldn’t trade my Emily for anything in the world, not even for the love of my life.”  He helped Peter pull the hoodie over his head. “You can’t think about what could have been. It’s a pointless exercise, because you have no idea just what you’d be giving up to get them back.”  He looked Peter in the eye. “Can you say for certain that there wasn’t any bit of good that came from your Uncle’s death?”

Peter thought about all the neighbors that had supported them, shown how much they cared.  He thought about how close he and Aunt May had become. And he thought about Spider-Man, how he would still be just another amateur stunt guy chasing subscribers for ad revenue, how many people owed their lives to Spider-Man’s rebirth.

When he looked up again, John was smiling softly, eyes knowing.  “Not saying it makes the pain go away, but your life will grow around his loss in time.  Won’t always feel so big and empty. You’ll surround it with other people, and experiences, and other kinds of love.”

John took a photo down from the mantle.  Peter took it carefully. There was a lovely woman, with wild hair and a bright smile sitting on a tree limb, head cocked at a jaunty angle.  “She was a doctor. Loved working in the emergency room. She knew the risks. And she _loved_ Emily,” he said, taking the frame again when Peter held it up.  “I have no regrets.” He looked back at Peter. “Just think about it.”

Peter nodded dumbly.  John was different, though.  It wasn’t his fault. He wished he could make the man understand that, but...he just couldn’t.

John smiled kindly at him.  “Why don’t you see what Em’s up to?  She’s been quiet for awhile. You two can go back to playing until I get lunch around.”

Peter got up in a daze.  He started down the hallway, then hesitated.

“John?” he called.  John popped his head back out of the kitchen.  “Thanks,” Peter said, softly.  John just nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just got back from work, so I'll post this now! Thank you all for all the wonderful comments!! Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'll check the count, but I believe the next one will be up later tonight.


	7. Promise?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed the spacing was wonky, for some reason, starting with Chapter 5. So I went back and fixed that. I have no idea why; it's all in the same Google Doc, so the spacing should be consistent. Ah, well.
> 
> This is the second chapter posted today, or rather, while I'm awake, lol. No new warnings, so enjoy!

Peter opened Emily’s door in a daze, but snapped back when he saw a familiar red and blue object on the floor in front of her, his backpack discarded around the bean bag.  She had the suit’s inner layer peeled open, tiny fingers trailing over the mess of wires and circuits with awe. She grinned when she saw Peter.

“Um,” he said, sitting in front of her, trying to push down his panic.  “What’ve you got there?” he squeaked.

“Spider-Man’s suit,” she said cheerfully.  “What is it doing in your bag?”

“How do you know-I mean, why do you think it’s his?” Peter asked, weakly.

“ _My_ Spider-Man costume doesn’t have wires this small.  Or this _many_ ,” she said, like she thought Peter was really dumb.  “Why do you have Spider-Man’s suit?”

She stared at him, expecting answers.  Peter suddenly regretted the hoodie; he could feel the sweat dripping down his back.

“Um,” he cast around, “we’re friends?”

“I knew it!” Emily yelled in triumph, grinning hugely.

“Shhh,” Peter said desperately, motioning for her to keep her voice down.  “It’s a secret. Please don’t tell anyone!”

Emily’s eyes narrowed.  “Daddy said I should never, _ever_ keep secrets that adults tell me to keep when we’ve been alone together.  Even if they’re not strangers.”

“Huh?” Peter asked.  Then he realized what she was talking about.  His eyes widened. “ _Oh_.  Yeah, that...that’s really good advice, you should definitely do what your dad says.  But, um,” he had no idea how to phrase this, “My friend, uh, Spider-Man, trusted me with his suit, and it wouldn’t be good for him if people found out that I had it.  So I’d feel better if that knowledge didn’t leave this room, okay?”

“Okay!” Emily said brightly.

Peter blinked.  That was easy. This kid was going to give him emotional whiplash.  “Oh. Uh, cool, thank you.”

Emily just shoved the circuits book into Peter’s hands.  “Come on, let’s do another one!”

Peter grinned at her, and set the book aside.  “How would you like to play with some real circuits?”

 

So Emily became Peter’s apprentice, rapt as he explained the different parts.  She was really impressed by the heater. Peter wished he could show her the drone, but it remained wedged in there, and he was only working with one hand, after all.  Probably a safety feature. He did let her cut out some of the ‘prettier’ wires, though; the suit was already in desperate need of repair, as far as Peter could tell, so he didn’t see the harm in letting her keep a few souvenirs.

Peter hurriedly shoved the garment back in his backpack when John called the two to lunch, knocking before he cracked the door open, John raising an eyebrow at Emily’s slack-jawed expression of awe.  

“What’s up, Em?” he asked, as he held the door and gestured for her to exit.

“Peter’s _fast_ ,” she grinned.  “We played circuits!  Peter’s _way_ better at it than you are.”

John chuckled.  “I’m sure. Glad you had fun.”

 

Lunch was some red meat Peter didn’t recognize, mashed potatoes, and carrots.   

“It’s venison,” John explained.  “Meat’s cheaper this way, if you’re smart about it.”

“Oh, so you killed this-- is that why you--”  Peter colored, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m just...not a fan of guns.”

“It’s fine.  I can understand that,” John said.  “But I’ll use any advantage I can to get us through.  I don’t do this for fun, thought I can see why people might think that, after seeing this place.  I actually inherited the taxidermy from the last owner. Didn’t have the heart to take it down, at first.  And Emily likes it too much for me to consider it now.”

John took a bite of his lunch.

“What’s taxidermy?” Emily asked, swinging her legs.  

“Hmm?”  John looked at her, swallowed his mouthful, then said, “The animal heads, honey.”

“Oh!”’ she exclaimed.  “I like them! They talk!”

John stared at her, visibly disturbed.  “Maybe it _is_ time I put them in storage,” he muttered.

“They don’t say much!”  Emily defended. “They behave!”

Peter muffled his snort with a forkful of potatoes.

 

<>

 

An hour later, Peter was struggling into the front seat of the pickup truck.  John was watching him too closely to use his enhanced capabilities to climb up, but he thinks he got away with that jump.

They’d talked about Peter’s next move over lunch.  John offered Peter a place to stay until he could get through to Aunt May, after determining that the boy had no one else he could call, but Peter declined.  He had to keep moving. Not just because it was his mess to clean up, but with regular meals and sleep, he knew his bruises would fade at a suspiciously rapid rate.  Then John asked him how far he had to go, and Peter had admitted that he was trying to get back to Queens. John almost did a genuine spit take at the table.

(“Jesus, kid, you weren’t kidding about staying on that ride of yours too long, “ he said, wiping his mouth after he finished coughing.  “I was thinking I could drop you somewhere, but that’s just too far, I’m afraid. Gas ain’t cheap.”

“I know,” Peter had said hurriedly.  “You’ve done too much already, you don’t need to drop me off anywhere.”

John waved his hand.  “Of course we haven’t; I’m the reason you fell out of that damn tree in the first place.”

“Language, Daddy!” Emily interjected gleefully.)

 

So the plan was for John and Emily to drop Peter off at a Travel Plaza about thirty minutes away.

(“There’re always plenty of people headed north,” he’d explained.  “I’m a father, so it goes against every instinct I have, but I figure I’ll drop you off, take Em shopping for a bit, and we’ll swing by again on our way home, say 6-ish?  If you’re still there, I’ll pick you up, and you can sleep here until we think of something else. If not, I’ll assume you’ve found a ride.” His gaze hardened. “And you’ll call me when you’re safe,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

He’d written down his number, which Peter tucked away safely in his bag, along with the large brown bag the man had packed with a, frankly, insane amount of food.  Peter had insisted on doing the lunch dishes before they left.)

 

The car ride there was more fun than Peter could have anticipated.  He’d never been in a pickup truck before, and Emily showed him how to put his hands up and bounce along as the vehicle went over bumps.  It was fun, being so high above the road. Peter felt like he could see forever. 

“Maybe I should look into getting one of these when I get my license,” Peter grinned.

John snorted.  “In the city? No way.  Parking would be a nightmare, and the bed has a tendency to list when the roads are bad if you don’t weigh it down.”

Peter sighed.  “You’re probably right.  Nobody has cars in the city, except—“

John raised an eyebrow, keeping his eyes on the road.  “Except?”

Peter had been thinking of all of Mr. Stark’s cars.  But he couldn’t exactly explain that he knew _the_ Tony Stark.

“Except, um, crazy people,” Peter said, “who can afford it.”

Nice save, Parker.

John just snorted again.  “You’ve got that right.”

“Daddy,” Emily piped up.  “Can we listen to a CD?”

“Wouldn’t you rather talk to Peter?” John said, sounding somewhat desperate.  “I’m sure he knows a lot of interesting things.”

Emily grinned in a way that Peter didn’t like _at all._ “He does!  He told me about how transformers work and—“

“I wouldn’t mind listening to a CD!” Peter squeaked.

“No, I want to talk to you!” Emily pouted.  “I want to know how you know--”

“Know how transformers, work, sure!” Peter said, voice a bit higher than usual.  “Settle in, this is a _long_ story.”

It wasn’t, really, especially considering he had to leave anything that would expose his or Mr. Stark’s identity out of it.  But luckily, Emily had plenty of other questions about other stuff he worked with. Enough to keep the topic of conversation away from his famous ‘friend’ until she conked out ten minutes in.

“She really is a genius,” Peter said, looking at her small, pigtailed head were it slumped against the side of her car seat.  

“Yeah,” John said ruefully.  “Wish her teachers understood that.  Kid gets in trouble nearly every day.  Can’t sit still, picks apart erasers, talks too much to her neighbors, et cetera.  I keep telling them it’s because she’s _bored_ , not because she needs medication.  But they just say that if that’s really all it was, she could use that energy to stay out of trouble.”  His face darkened. “Idiots, all of them. What I wouldn’t give to get her into one of those fancy private schools.  Give her the attention she needs.”

“Isn’t there financial aid?” Peter asked.  

John laughed bitterly.  “Yeah, but there’s no _schools_.  Not here, in the middle of nowhere.  We’d have to move to the city, and I can’t afford that.”

“Yeah,” Peter sighed.  “I never realized they were really only available in the city.  That’s not fair; there really should be support for kids like her.”

“Preaching to the choir,” John said, huffing.  

Peter was quiet for a minute.  “What’s your favorite part about living out here?”  

John thought for a moment.  “You know, I spend so much of my day thinking about why I’d love to be able to afford to leave, that I sometimes forget why I stayed.  But there are perks.” A corner of his mouth turned up. “There’s just something in the air. It doesn't always smell the prettiest, but there’s a depth to it.  It’s fresh. Real. Orgainic, kind of. And the quiet is hard to beat. Summer nights, when the rain is beating on the roof, or a thunderstorm rumbles through. The colors in fall.  Fresh apples. Snow, when all that’s around you are trees. All those things are my favorite,” John said, eyes a bit misty.

He turned to Peter, glancing away from the road for a moment.  “You’re a good kid, you know that?”

Peter’s throat closed a bit.  His Uncle Ben used to say that to him.  He hadn’t felt much like he was a good kid, lately.  

He couldn’t manage a thanks, but he nodded, and he thought John understood.

 

<<>>

 

Emily woke up with a couple minutes to spare, and proceeded to talk Peter’s ear off about ducks.  He had no idea where the topic came from. Emily was a refreshingly chaotic character, and Peter was definitely going to miss her.

Emily was going to miss Peter, too, it turned out.  As soon as they turned into the plaza, she was asking when Peter was going to come over to play next, and he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her.  So Peter looked to John, and John explained to her that Peter had to go home, and that he lived really far away, so he wasn’t sure when Peter would be able to get down to see her again.  She had started bawling, and hugged Peter’s leg in a grip so tight, Peter wasn’t sure how to pry her off without hurting her.

“It’s okay, Emily,” he said, patting her head awkwardly.  “I have your dad’s phone number, and I’ll give him mine, just give me a minute.”  He accepted the pen from John, and wrote the number on a receipt sitting in a cup holder.  “It might be a little while before I answer, because I left my phone at home, but you’ll have it, for when I get there.  And if you ask really nicely, I’m sure your dad will take you somewhere with Wi-Fi so you can use the video chat option to talk to me once in a while.  Okay?”

“You promise?”  Emily sniffed, wiping her nose on Peter’s pants.  Gross.

“Yeah, I promise.” Peter said.

“Spit shake?” Emily asked hopefully.

“No!” John said, looking slightly panicked.  “But a regular handshake should be fine. It’s what grown up people use.”

“Ohhh!  Let’s do that, Peter!” Emily grinned.

Peter laughed. “Okay.”

Emily’s small face grew stern.  “Do you promise to call my Daddy and play circuits with me again?”

“I promise.” Peter said solemnly, and they shook on it.  A sacred promise between new friends.

Then Emily hawked and spit a huge wad on the ground.  

“Emily!” John admonished.

“What?  You do it all the time!” Emily said.

“Not in public!” He said.  “Come on, back in the truck.”

“Aww,” she pouted, as John gave her a boost into the cabin.

“Sorry about that,” John said, after he got her all buckled in.  “We just watched Peter Pan the other week, and your name must have reminded her of the Lost Boys.”

They stood there awkwardly for a moment.  Peter was kind of hoping for a hug, but he wasn’t sure John was a hugging kind of guy.  He’d gone in for hugs and been awkwardly rejected too often, lately. But John just sighed.  “Come here, you,” he said, and carefully took Peter into his arms. It was a great hug; nice and firm.  Supportive, but not overbearing. Everything Peter imagined a dad hug to be. John patted him on the back before he let go.  “Now, you call me, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said.  “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” the man smiled, before he climbed in the driver’s side.

“Bye, Peter!” Emily waved enthusiastically from the front seat.  

Peter couldn’t help but do the same, smiling as he watched the truck drive out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as they get home, Emily drags her daddy into her bedroom and tells him all about how Peter is friends with Spider-Man and had his suit in his backpack and showed her how all the circuits were connected and even gave her the prettiest wires to keep, look Daddy! And the best part was, she didn't have to break her promise, because Peter had just asked her to keep the knowledge that Peter was friends with Spider-Man in her room. ;)
> 
> Disclaimer; I know next to nothing about hunting or electronics. Please correct me if something sounds weird, lol.
> 
> Thank you for all the wonderful comments! They're driving me through the revision process, tbh. We're getting close now! Tomorrow, we start act 4! Thanks for reading <3


	8. No Good Deed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the foul language tag? Yeah...
> 
> Also to those of you asking if there will be more content about a certain hamster's backstory, this one's for you. Enjoy :)

Peter was alone again.  But somehow, he didn’t feel as alone, this time around.  Sure, the initial separation didn’t hurt any less. He knew he’d miss Emily and John just as much as Jace and AJ and Theo.  With the promise of calling Emily fresh in his mind, he wished he could do the same with the others, but, he was ashamed to say, getting their numbers hadn’t even crossed his mind.  He sighed, and turned towards his next prospect.

The plaza was a busy place, people constantly coming and going with plates on their cars from California to Maine.  The place had a gas station with an obscene number of pumps, a huge parking lot, a hotel, and a main building, that had a number of shops and restaurants, along with bathrooms, pay showers, and pay phones.  Surely he could find someone in this place that was going to the Big Apple! But how would he find them? Guess there was nothing to do but ask.

His dialogue went something like this.  “Hi! I’m Peter. I’m trying to get home, to New York City.  Are you headed in that direction? Could I maybe ride along?”

He was completely ignored by the guy chowing down on a turkey sandwich, and by the lady with a cheeseburger, and the couple pouring over the community map.  The family looking at keychains in the gift shop kept shifting away from him, a mother inching their child behind their back with every second he spent on his spiel, eyes flickering between his sling and the shop exit.  And he chatted for a group wearing “I Heart NYC” t-shirts for a solid five minutes before he found out that they didn't speak any English. Or Spanish. At the ten minute mark, they somehow were able to figure out what Peter was asking, and drew a path away from the city on the free map pamphlet Peter had picked up at the door.  Wrong direction.

After about two hours with no luck whatsoever, he was sighing on a bench in the food court.  He needed a break. He missed his phone a lot in that moment; it gave him something to do with his hands, a way to occupy his mind.  It took him back that first night in the woods, alone and bored. How he blocked out a story about-hey, that’s right! Falafel, the seeing-eye hamster.  The hamster who nobody wanted, until a boy who saw with his hands and his heart instead of his eyes picked him up. Daniel was looking for a friend. A noisy friend, who with every scuttle and clank would reassure him that they were still there.  But when his hand explored the enclosure, gentle as anything, all the hamsters ran away. Daniel was so sad; he couldn’t get any to stay long enough for him to stroke their soft fur. But them he found him. A fuzzy little ball, laying perfectly still.  Although too small for everyone else, Falafel was the perfect size for Daniel’s palm. Falafel hadn’t experienced a kind touch in so long, he melted in Daniel’s palm. And that was when Daniel knew; he had found his new best friend.

Peter blinked back to awareness when the same person passed him for a third time.  A person wearing a name tag, a vest, and a suspicious squint. So Peter hurriedly exited the table and the building.

 

He sighed, looking over all the cars.  Sitting in the lot, moving in and out. A few with hoods up, and even a mini van with the hood popped and a family sitting on the tailgate and eating french fries. Peter couldn't believe that out of all these people, none were headed to one of the largest cities on the eastern seaboard.  And if they were, they sure as hell weren't talking to Peter. What was he doing wrong? Why were they so wary of him?

He looked down at his clothes.  They were a little baggy, but passable.  His sweats fit right in with the casual travel crowd.  And they were freshly washed. Peter was freshly washed, too; he had finally showered today, and brushed his teeth and everything.  So he didn’t smell.

Maybe it was the sling?  Paired with the blues and greenish-yellows of bruises that were beginning to fade, the sling drew too much attention.  Made him look like trouble. And that was a problem, when he was trying to ask people to ride along with their families.

He bit his lip, torn.  At this point, his arm wasn't in terrible shape as long as he didn't move it.  Or use it. The main advantage of the sling was taking the strain off his muscles; it was tiring to hold his arm so stiffly.  But it drew the wrong kind of attention, after all, so it probably wouldn’t hurt to try taking it off for a while. The brace hidden under his sleeve would be enough support for now.

He bent down, carefully pulled it off, then stowed it in his bag.  His arm really did feel better than it had the day before; it didn't hurt when he wasn't moving it, at least.  Maybe now, people would be more inclined to talk. He looked over the cars, eyes honing in on a set of license plates; maybe there was an easier way to figure out where people were going.

Peter felt like kind of a creep, watching the cars that pulled in, chatting to anyone with NY plates.  It didn’t go any better than his attempts inside. People ignored him, shot him alarmed looks. And when he could get someone to listen, he found himself tripping over his tongue and sweating too much.  It just felt wrong, trying to use people like that. His discomfort probably wasn’t selling his general trustworthiness.

Soon, Peter resigned himself to the fact that he probably wasn’t going to pick up a ride here.  He ventured back inside, and checked the main TV monitor. It was a bit past three, so he didn’t have a lot of time left.  Not a lot of time until John and Emily would swing by again, just so Peter could take advantage of their kindness. Peter sighed, slumping back against the hard bench, and closing his eyes.  It seemed to be his lot in life, letting people down, and taking advantage of people who were stronger, kinder, and just... _more_ than he was.  He hated it. Sometimes he didn’t know why he bothered, anymore.  There wasn’t a point, if he couldn’t give back, somehow.

 

Loud rustling and raspy breathing interrupted Peter’s spiraling thoughts, and he cracked open curious eyes.  An older gentleman was struggling with bags upon bags of groceries, trying to keep up with two young boys skipping well ahead of him.  Without a thought, Peter was on his feet, and asked if the man would like a hand.

“Just one; that’s all I have available right now,” Peter laughed self-deprecating, as he took his left out of his hoodie pocket and showed where the brace covered his wrist.

Harold didn’t mind at all; he introduced Peter to Chris and Andrew, who gladly took some of the lighter bags that held fruit snacks and tissues, respectively, while Peter carried the drinks, sandwiches, and other miscellaneous goods the man had overpaid for at the plaza’s convenience store.  Peter didn’t have any difficulties carrying the majority of the bags; his spider strength was still available to him, after all.

Harold brightened as soon as the load was lifted, his tongue loosening along with his shoulders.  The older man told Peter all about how his brilliant pharmacist daughter and her husband were going on vacation to Baltimore, and they were kind enough to let an old man tag along and watch the young ones have fun.  Peter listened attentively nodding along, grinning as the boys raced around beside them.

“Grandpa, look!  They have ice cream!” One of the boys pointed, finger in his mouth, eyes wide and pleading. 

Harold chuckled.  “I see, kiddo, but that’s up to your mother.” 

“Aww,” the boy deflated, but gladly accepted the hand Harold proffered, the other boy hurrying to take the other, and soon started giggling as the man swung their hands back and forth, sweeping steadily higher while continuing to tell Peter all about Janie’s job at the hospital.

Harold led Peter to a modest sedan, and thanked him profusely for his trouble. 

“It was no trouble, Mr. Harold, sir,” Peter said, as he loaded the groceries into the back seat at the man’s request.  When he exited, the man was trying his hardest to shove a ten dollar bill into Peter’s hands, but Peter emphatically refused; the company was payment enough.  His heart swelled at all the smiles he got when he waved to the family as they pulled away.

“You take care of yourself, son,” Harold had said gruffly, shaking Peter’s hand firmly before getting in the vehicle himself.

Peter kept waving until they were well out of sight, feeling...well, kind of _good_.  Like he might have done something good for someone else for the first time in days, making up for some of the kindness he had received, lately.  Since he was waiting anyways, he might as well use the time to make someone else’s day a little better.

 

<<>>

 

With this new plan of action, the rest of the afternoon veritably flew by.  That persistent knot in Peter’s stomach grew steadily looser with every smile he coaxed out of the patrons of the travel plaza.

He persuaded Morris to put his huge backpack down for a minute while Peter helped him figure out the map, and the guy set off again with a cheery wave.

Beatrice looked lonely, sitting on a bench all by herself while waiting for her party to finish shopping, so Peter sat down and learned a great deal about how to properly take plants inside for the winter.

Sandra lost her niece, Petra.  Peter found her hiding behind the vending machine.  Sandra gave him a handful of sticky hard candies she had at the bottom of her purse. 

They weren’t bad, and Peter happily crunched up a cherry one.  He was licking off his sticky fingers when he saw a harried woman jog in with grease streaked across her cheek.  Peter had no idea how she had managed to do that, but he wasn’t wondering for long; she was asking anyone if they knew how to change a tire, please, she had to get back to her son, he was waiting alone in the car.

“I might be able to help you out, ma’am,” Peter piped up, stepping forward.

“Thank you so much,” the woman gushed.  Linda was just trying to get home.

“Yeah, me too,” Peter said, corner of his mouth pulled up ruefully.  “I came here looking for a ride, actually. But that’s probably not going to happen, so now I’m just passing the time.”

“I can... I can definitely drop you somewhere,” Linda offered, lips pursed.  “As long as it’s not too far out of the way. Provided you can get this piece of junk up and running.”

Peter smiled at her reassuringly.  “I can definitely try my best.”

Uncle Ben had taught Peter a few things about basic car maintenance.  And Tony had shown him a couple of tricks in the garage, claiming that badass suit maintenance skills came from badass mechanic skills, he recalled, heart giving a twinge.  So Peter knew more than enough to change a tire, even with only one hand. He tried to ask for an extra or two from Linda a couple of times, but all the woman did was poke pensively at the screen of her phone, and crawl into the back a few times to try to calm her son down.  Peter put a tight lid on his growing annoyance with a reminder that she was stressed, with good reason, and probably had to update friends and family about her unexpected change in plans. That theory went out the window when he happened to glance over and caught her browsing videos of nail art. 

“So where’s home for you?” Peter asked, trying to make some small talk to distract himself from how uncomfortable it was to kneel on the ground like that. 

“Hoboken,” she said blandly.  “New Jersey,” she added, and Peter grinned.

“I’m from Queens!  I’m trying to get back there now, actually.  The train stops there, right?  You could drop me off at the station, then.  It’s perfect!”

Peter grinned, and resumed his work with vigor, too caught up in his relief to register Linda’s reaction.  They were going the same place! He didn’t have to worry John and Emily anymore, or mooch off of them for a minute longer.  And he’d be back home by tonight, easily, so he wouldn’t worry Aunt May. The sudden revving of motorcycles drew him out of his reverie, and he realized he was about done.

Peter chattered on as he focused intently on lowering the car back to the ground, carefully.  “Thank you so much, you have no idea how much this means to me, Aunt May will be so happy…”

He trailed off as a menacing shape hovered over him, casting all the tools he was gathering into shadow.  Peter half turned, eyes trailing upward from heavy leather boots, to jeans with large holes, to a denim vest with worn patches covered in sharp calligraphy, up to a stern lip line below a tight pair of aviators.  The person’s long hair was tied back with a faded red bandana. She held a motorcycle helmet under her arm. There were two others bikers standing a short distance away, dressed in brown and black leather, scowling at Peter with their arms crossed.  Peter gulped.

“What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” the biker woman growled, refusing to take her eyes off Peter for a second.  Peter paled, but explained.

“Oh, she had a flat tire, but I’m just about--” Peter started, but Linda cut him off.

“Thank God you’re here, you have to help me,” Linda gasped.  She drew herself up indignantly, then swung an accusatory finger at Peter.  “This...this _delinquent_ , he just won’t leave me alone.  He overheard I had a flat tire, and he just followed me out here, and did the whole thing without asking permission.  I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. And now, he’s demanding that I give him a ride in ‘payment.’ I have a son to worry about, I can’t be letting strangers in my car, which I _told him_ , multiple times.  He just won’t leave me alone, this is clearly harassment.”

Peter’s mouth was stuck open in disbelief and horror.  His hands shook, and he felt absolutely sick. “Wait, that’s not...but you _offered_ to--” he started to say, but the biker lady shushed him.

“So you’re saying this kid changed your tire for you?  Did everything?” The woman rasped.

“Yes, he did, and now, well,” Linda sniffed, looking down her nose at Peter, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips.  “You know. I just didn’t know what to do,” she simpered.

Cold sweat ran down Peter’s back, and his stomach churned with dread.  There would be no running away this time; even Spider-Man probably couldn’t outrun a motorcycle without webs.  But plain old Peter Parker, well. Peter was going to throw up, he just knew it.  This was awful; it was probably a good thing he was already close to the ground. “But you offered,” he couldn’t help but squeak, immediately regretting it.  That was weak, and he was dead. He braced himself for the attack, but the biker lady just nodded at Peter, face impassive, before turning back to Linda, who had started up again, ranting about the _nerve_ of some people.

“Did you try thanking him?”  the biker lady interrupted.

Linda gaped.  “Of course not!  I didn’t ask for his help,” she sniffed, but shrunk a bit when the other two ladies came up to flank the first.

“You should thank him,” the woman said in a tone that brooked no argument, jerking her head in Peter’s direction.

“Thanks,” Linda said uncharitably, flaring her nostrils, “but you don’t understand, he--”

“Changed your tire,” the biker woman interrupted again.  A vein pulsed in Linda’s forehead. “And he was just finishing up, too.  Look at all those tools on the ground; he clearly didn’t have time to leave you be.  Want to know what _I_ think happened, here?”  Her eyes glinted dangerously.  “I think a cheap bitch more concerned about the state of her nails than common decency didn’t want to dip into her mani pedi fund to pay AAA to come over here, so she went looking for help, offering compensation with no intention of making good on her offer.  Am I close?”

Linda sputtered.  “How dare-you don’t-”  But the biker wasn’t done yet.  She cocked her head to the side, incredulously.

“And then you take advantage of a kid, a _kid_ , who’s got a rougher appearance, claiming he’s trouble, so that _you_ can get out of your promise, no skin off your back if he gets thrown in juvie under false charges.”

“Now that’s not, I didn’t-” Linda stammered.

“You did,” the biker said calmly.  “You could have just said no. You know, like a decent human being.  This young man might have changed the tire for you anyway. But you didn’t, and you made the mistake of trying to drag me and my posse into it under false pretenses.  So now you’re going to deal with the consequences. First up, you’re going to apologize to...hey, kid, what’s your name?” she called, despite Peter being right there, still on the ground. 

Peter was able to shut his hanging jaw enough to squeak out, “Peter.”

“You’re going to apologize to Peter,” the biker continued, without missing a beat, “And you’re gonna say, ‘I’m sorry I was an entitled asshole.’  Go on.”

“I’m not going to-” Linda’s eyes flickered around, desperately seeking another savior.  But everyone around just averted their eyes and hurried past.

The biker woman just drew in closer.  “Say. It.”

Linda shrunk, backing towards her car, face terrified.  “I...I’m sorry for being…” Linda whispered, then froze.

“‘An entitled asshole,’” the biker prompted blandly.

“A, um, an entitled ass, uh, asshole,” Linda squeaked.

“‘And next time,” the biker lady continued, “instead of being a lying douchebag, I’ll just say no.’”

Linda huffed.  “And next time, I’ll say no.”

The biker got even closer.  Linda couldn’t back any closer to her car, and the women’s foreheads were almost touching.  “Say it. All of it.”

“Instead of being a lying d-douchebag I’ll say no!” Linda squeaked, fumbling behind her for the door handle, before pulling it open, practically diving inside, and slamming the door shut.  Peter had just enough time to throw himself backwards before Linda peeled out of there like a crazy person, her son audibly bawling from the back. He gaped after her, and jumped as the two other bikers broke into cackles. 

“What a dick,” the main biker drawled as she watched Linda go, the tire kit abandoned in the parking lot in her haste.  Then she offered Peter a hand up. Peter hesitated a moment before timidly accepting. The woman hauled him quickly up with incredibly strength, and steadied him as he swayed, legs asleep from kneeling for so long on asphalt. She held out her hand to shake. “Name’s Mabel. And these wild cats are Sandy, and Nora.”

The biker with the spiky bangs nodded, and the one with the styled white hair gave a cocky little wave, respectively.  Peter waved back, timidly. He thought he might be in shock. “Thank you?”

Mabel grinned at him, and slapped a hand on his shoulder.  “Don’t mention it. People don’t always make it easy to keep offering a helping hand, do they?”

“No,” Peter said, sighing.  “Sometimes I wish I could look the other way, but then I might be missing someone who really needs it.  And that's not right.”

Sandy nodded sagely, while the other women regarded him intently.

“I like it,” Peter continued, feeling a strange urge to explain himself.  “Helping people. That’s why I keep doing it, even when people, uh…” he lost his train of thought.

“Threaten to call the police?” Sandy finished dryly.  Peter just nodded, sheepishly. That definitely happened to Spider-Man more than once.

Nora chuckled wryly.  “Good for you, honey.”

“You’re a good kid,” Mabel declared, with a wild grin.

Peter blushed.  “I’m not, I mean, I don’t think I...Um, thank you.”

“Now,” Mabel said, clapping her hands together, “where did the bitch promise to take you after you were done doing her dirty work?”

“Oh,” Peter said.  “She didn’t exactly _promise,_ but I thought...I mean, I’m just trying to get home.  To Queens. Around New York City, Ma’am.”

“Mabel,” the woman corrected him.

“Mabel.  Right. She was going to Hoboken, so I was hoping she would drop me off at the train station.  She kind of implied me she could drop me anywhere I wanted as long as it wasn’t too far out of her way,” Peter admitted, embarrassed at his gullibility.

“Well, it’s your lucky day, Peter,” Mabel grinned.  “The girls and I happen to be on our way to Manhattan to catch a show tomorrow.  If you don’t mind taking the scenic route, we should get to Broadway by noon tomorrow.  That close enough for you?”

“Oh wow, I mean, yes, that’s _perfect_ ,” Peter said emphatically.  “Thank you so, _so_ much!”

“You’re very welcome,” Mabel said.

“It’s our pleasure,” Sandy grinned, and Nora’s lips curled upward.

Peter thought of something, then sobered, deflating.  Mabel raised an eyebrow in question. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing so far from home?”

Mabel shrugged.  “None of our damn business.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to piss like a racehorse,” she said, striding towards the main building.  Peter gaped at her. “You need to call someone in the meantime?” she called over her shoulder. Peter jogged to catch up with her.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Here.”  Mabel handed him a flip phone, then ducked into the ladies’ room.

Peter stood outside the restrooms and tried Aunt May’s number one more time.  Still no luck, but he’d be home tomorrow, so it should be fine. He did call John, who picked up immediately, thankfully, and let him know that some very nice women were going to let him tag along to Manhattan.

“ _Good!”_ the man had said.   _“Make sure to let me know when you’re home safe, you hear?  I’ll be waiting for your call.”_

Peter assured him he would, and thanked him emphatically before hanging up just as Mabel walked over, drying her hands on her jeans.

“Ready to go?” she grinned.

“Sure!” Peter grinned back, just as wide.

  


<<>>

  


It turned out that riding motorcycles was _fun_ .  Peter wanted a motorcycle.  They were fast, and rumbly, and the wind on his face felt _fantastic_.  Well, the bugs kind of hurt when they smacked into his neck and arm, (Mabel had insisted that he take her helmet), but other than that, it was awesome.  It was kind of like web-swinging, but lower. And you could do it where there were no buildings, which was a huge win in his book. No more running through the suburbs.  Maybe Spider-Man should look into getting a motorcycle. A Spidercycle? Yes, awesome.

It was too loud to talk, so Peter just admired the landscape as they rumbled along.  They wound along roadways lined with trees firey with fall foliage. And when they got to the top of the mountain, Mabel signaled the other riders to pull over, and lead Peter to a gap in the trees.  He gasped.

The Appalachians rolled out in front of him, short and pillowy, and absolutely awash with warm color.  There were swaths of green pines, but the rest were in shades of red, orange, yellows, and brown. The sweeping beauty took his breath away.

He looked over at his companions, awestruck, and they grinned at him.

“See that?”  Nora pointed to one of the trees alongside them.  It was a vibrant red-orange. “That’s my favorite kind.  It’s a sugar maple. Gorgeous colors. This has been a good year for them; not too much rain.”

“Just my luck,” Peter muttered.  It felt like a rare night when he wasn't caught in the rain while out on patrol.  It was a good thing that criminals objected to getting wet just as much as the next person, because webs didn't stick so well when everything was so slippery.

“What was that?” Sandy asked, cocking an ear.

“Ah, nothing.  Just got caught in the rain the other day.  Was thinking it was just my luck.”

“Isn’t no such thing as luck,” Nora sniffed.

Peter’s throat tightened.  He mustered a small smile. “Yeah.  So I’ve heard.”

 

<<>>

 

The air nipped harder the lower the sun slipped down the horizon.  It was getting darker sooner with every day that went by, and the trees threw long shadows over the road.  Nearly without warning, thick trees gave way to more pavement, then ramps, and then tall building forming an unfamiliar silhouette where they scraped the sky.

“Where are we?” Peter shouted over the roar of the hog.

“Philly!  Philadelphia, that is!” Mabel shouted back.  “We’ll stop here for the night!”

They eventually pulled over at a gas station to refuel and discuss plans, Peter dragging a bit from sitting so long in an awkward position, and with only one good arm for holding on. 

“We’ve got a motel booked,” Sandy explained, “but I’d like to do a little exploring while we still have a bit of light.  You okay with that?”

Peter blinked, trying to will his fatigue away.  He loved exploring, normally. And he was determined not to derail these wonderful people’s vacation any more than he already had.  So he summoned all his energy, and pulled his lips into a grin.

“Sure!”

 

<>

 

They set off down the streets, hitting the historic district just as it was beginning to come alive, going over bridges, and admiring the lights in the river before they parked the bikes and tooled around the Spruce Street Harbor Park.

It was gorgeous, all lit up, and Peter took in all the lights dangling from the trees as he walked with the women along the boardwalk.  They got dinner at one of the restaurants around the area, and since the women were giddy and loose after a few beers, they decided to wander around the park to sober up.

They made their way to a group of hammocks, and relaxed for a while.  Peter got antsy after a couple of minutes though, unable to understand the abundance of inside jokes the women used to communicate and tired of sitting after riding all day.

“I’m going to have a look around,” Peter told Nora.

“We’ll be here!  Just be careful, honey; Philly can get a bit rough when the sun goes down,” she cautioned him, but he had already jumped to his feet and started jogging away.

“Thanks! I will!” Peter called, waving over his shoulder. 

The air might be chilly, but it didn't keep the people away.  His bag hang loosely from his shoulder as he walked the streets, stopping once every so often and asking to pet couples’ dogs.  He stopped and watched a person with blue hair play guitar for a couple of minutes. They were amazing, using their fingers to tap out complex rhythms on the wooden part.  Peter almost tripped over a guy dozing in a doorway, long dark hair obscuring his face. Peter bit his lip, and grabbed the paper bag of food John had packed for him, decorated with the plants Emily had drawn with crayons, and laid it at his feet.  He watched a couple swing their hands together as they walked by the water, and his spider sense prickled uneasily, distracting him as he watched a young boy pick up every rock he saw to show his mother. It was startlingly nostalgic, and Peter suddenly missed his Aunt May.  He was near the park’s border now, enthusiastically rubbing a corgi’s fluffy belly, lost in her doggy grin, when the dog’s owner let out a sharp cry.

Peter’s head whipped up at her in alarm; he hadn't sensed anything, and he didn't see anything wrong with her.  Her ponytail bobbed as her arm shot up, pointing down the street.

“He!  It! Aaargh!”  She was waving frantically, hand flapping in all directions, her eyes wide.  Peter stared at her with confusion and growing concern. “Um, your bag!?”

Peter glanced down at his side; sure enough, his backpack was gone.  He looked around frantically, finally settling on the direction the woman was pointing.  A dark figure rounded the corner up ahead, sprinting down the darker streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about changing tires. Or Philly. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Stressful day, so just one chapter tonight. Not far left to go now!
> 
> See y'all tomorrow!


	9. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!PLEASE CHECK THE TAGS!!!!!
> 
> Shit gets real this chapter, guys. Check the updated tags, please. Peter has some pretty unhealthy self-talk, and there's other heavy stuff like panic attacks and suicide ideation.
> 
> Also, this is the chapter that the Major Character Death comes into play, and it's pretty graphic; lots of blood and sensory language, so just be careful. I don't really have a great way to let you skip this one, unfortunately. Feel free to message me on tumblr if you're concerned, and I can provide a chapter summary of plot at the end so you can move right along. Stay safe.

Once Peter scrambled to his feet, he was off like a shot after them, his mind racing somewhere between the beats of his pounding heart.

Breaking the suit was one thing; losing it was another.  And having it stolen...Well. Someone who knew what they were doing could do some significant damage with access to the garment’s experimental nature and powerful components.  And it would be all Peter’s fault.

Peter ran like a man possessed, pursuing with single-minded intensity, but the person in the dirty coat had the home field advantage.  They ducked into small side streets, back alleys, cut back a few times. Peter soon lost all sense of direction, forced to rely on his advanced hearing to track the culprit.  Coupled with his enhanced speed, he soon began gaining ground. He was impressed that the guy had lasted this long; Peter hadn’t been able to test this theory out, (because why run when you could swing?) but he was pretty sure he was tough guy to beat in a footrace.  His hand was so close to the back of the jacket. Closer. His fingers caught the very edge and stuck. Thank you, spider powers. 

The guy, understandably, panicked, tossing Peter’s backpack to the side.  Peter glanced reflexively to where it fell, momentum continuing to carry him forward at full speed.  His spider sense flared;  _ DANGER! _

His forehead blossomed into pain, a black wave cascading over him.  Pavement scratched his knees and jarred his bad arm.

Time went away for a while.  There was only pain, and darkness.  

 

<<>>

 

It was hard to tell how long, but when Peter came to, he was on the ground, and his hands were numb; from cold or lack of circulation, he couldn’t say.  He eased himself up gingerly, wincing at the throbbing pain in his head, which only made the static obscuring his street-lit view pulse. He could feel every single beat of his heart in his head, in his arm.  His neck. It was a wonder he wasn’t used to this by now; waking up in the dark, alone, cold, and in pain. Wondering if he’d ever know what it felt like to be warm again, if he could figure out a way to break this cycle. 

When his vision cleared enough and he regained some presence of mind, he looked for his bag.  But it wasn’t anywhere in sight. He shivered, a suspicious breeze tickling his toes. He glanced down and cursed; the asshole had taken his boots, too.    


_ “Fuck,” _ Peter whispered, but with feeling.  “Shit. Damn it,” his volume increasing.  Soon he was yelling. “FUCK!” It bounced off the walls, distorting as it went.  He giggled. Which turned to laughter, loud and harsh and desperate, until his chest heaved.  Until it hurt. But he couldn’t stop. His vision blurred as he shook, then felt two drops land on his hand.  Was it raining? He looked up and around, but the sky was fairly clear; the stars were dim from light pollution, a familiar sight.  No rain. Instead, the tears that he had been holding back for days and maybe weeks but probably for the past two years finally spilled over.  If those first two had seeped through the cracks in the damn, the rest spit it wide open. And the flood hit, fast and hard and so powerful he could do nothing but surrender himself to it’s mercy.    


And it hurt.   _ God  _ did it hurt.  He was alone again.  Back to square one, or maybe zero.  No, negative ten. Negative twenty. Because he was back where he started, except  _ worse _ .  He was alone, and cold, and everything hurt, those amazing women had probably waited for him in this cold  _ forever.   _ He was such an  _ idiot,  _ all he had to do was  _ stay where he was  _ and he could have been in a hotel by now, listening to Mabel’s awesome bar stories, and Sandy’s stories about her unit back in Vietnam and have Nora call him honey while staring down the guy trailing after them with a look that promised death.  He was so selfish, and stupid, and his stupidity had hurt people  _ again.   _ Important people, that would never want to interact with him again, and for good reason.

He sobbed.  Worse, the suit was gone.  The suit that Mr. Stark had made for him, had foolishly returned to Peter after he had messed up so horribly the first time.  He utterly ruined his second chance. Hell, he let someone take a valuable prototype. Stark Industries could sue him for this, would take him and Aunt May for all they were worth, and then they’d have nothing left.  The worst part was, he had been having  _ fun  _ when it was taken.  He didn’t deserve to have  _ fun,  _ or  _ enjoy things,  _ not when he’d caused so much misery.  How could he be so careless, to leave it unattended while he held up a lady just to pet her dog?  How could he do that to Mr. Stark? How could he do that to  _ May? _

God, the sobbing  _ hurt,  _ each one ripped violently out of his chest.  He didn’t deserve to make it home. He didn’t deserve to feel warm, or safe, or get a hug from Aunt May.  He didn’t even deserve to be punished by her, all warm and safe while he was grounded for a week, with no phone or TV or visiting hours.  No, what he deserved was just what he was getting; a sandpapery segment of wall, and a stretch of pavement that had been probably been subjected to every type of bodily fluid under the sun.

He crumbled into himself, and cried, wails of frustration and grief and self-pity.  Long and hard and messy. He cried for the stress of the last few days, the mistake that started this all, his stupidity, all the people he’d taken advantage of, the people he had assaulted, the people who’d given beyond their means for a waste like Peter.  A menace like Spider-Man. He cried until he physically couldn’t anymore; his tear ducts run dry. So he just. Existed. A bundle of misery, as the tears tracks and mucus crusted unpleasantly around his eyes and cheeks. Feeling the mess dry bit by bit, as the minutes ticked by, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. 

He lifted his head just enough to wipe his face on his sleeve, grimacing at the grit caked on the garment from riding the motorcycle earlier.  A thin cloth was pressed into his hand, and Peter just said, “Thanks,” as he scrubbed at his face roughly and blew his nose. 

He started to hand the handkerchief back.  Then paused because that was just nasty. But it was a  _ cloth handkerchief _ , he couldn’t just throw it away like a normal tissue.  How did people  _ use  _ these things!?  He should probably wash it, but it belonged to a stranger.  Maybe he could ask the person who handed it to him. Wait, what?!

He blinked.  He furrowed his brow, and stared at the handkerchief.  Then blinked again. He slowly turned his head to the side...

The guy sitting right beside him didn’t acknowledge Peter’s existence, aside from a slight puckering of the corner of his mouth.  Otherwise, he was utterly impassive. The flesh equivalent of a brick wall, bearded and worn, the glassy steel blue eyes glinting under the streetlights the only bright spot on his face.

Peter jumped violently.  The guy didn’t react, staring at nothing.  He was sitting very close, his thigh only a couple of inches away from where Peter’s own.

“Uh...hi?”  Peter leaned forward a bit and craned his head, trying to look the guy in the face.  The guy evaded eye contact, dark hair shifting to obscure his face completely, hanging like a long, greasy curtain.  Undeterred, Peter continued. “Um, thank you. For this,” he held up the handkerchief. The head turned slightly, blue eyes flickering to the cloth and back ahead.  “This is...really nice, don’t think I’ve ever used one of these before. Not a tissue!” Peter scrambled to clarify, not wanting the guy to think he was gross. He shouldn’t have worried, the guy was staring ahead, just as impassive as ever.  At least Peter could still see his eyes. “I mean, I’ve used tissues before. The paper ones. Not a cloth one, this is  _ really  _ nice, but I don’t really know what to do with it now.  What’s the protocol here? Like, I’m sure you want it back, but it’s really gross now, and that’s my fault, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.  Maybe we could go find a fast food place or gas station or something and I could use the sink? Or maybe…”

Peter trailed off, aware of a soft noise coming from the guy, and looked over.  The guy’s shoulders were shaking, and unless Peter was nuts, blue eyes glinted with what Peter swore was amusement.  He was a bit concerned; was he choking? But then he realized; the guy was  _ chuckling. _

Peter couldn’t help but grin in response.  Somehow,  _ he’d  _ done that.

And he was suddenly sick to death of calling the guy ‘the guy’ in his head.  Genuine laughter had a way of humanizing people. And people had to have names.    


“I’m Peter, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand, wincing internally as soon as he put it out there, because the guy  _ just  _ saw him blow his nose with that hand, and that was gross.

But the guy didn’t seem to mind, just took his hand gently and gave it a light shake before releasing it without a word, his mouth puckered slightly, almost in a suggestion of a smile.

Peter smiled too, and waited.  And waited. More than a couple of beats too long.

“Cool.  Um, so what’s yours?” Peter asked.  “Your name?”

The guy just shrugged.  That hint of a smile was undeniably gone now, his eyes dead.

“Oh, so you’re not comfortable sharing?” Peter bit his lip.

The guy glanced around, as if the answer would be written on one of the dumpsters, frustrated lines carving into his forehead when he couldn’t find it.  Peter was content to wait, but the guy just shook his head with finality, and shrugged again, eyes rueful.

“Hey, that’s okay!  I don’t mind,” Peter was quick to reassure.  “I was just tired of calling you ‘the guy’ in my head.  Still am. Can I pick a nickname for you?”

The guy didn’t really respond at first, just kind of picked at the fraying knee of his dark jeans.  Then nodded, just a slight lifting of his chin, twice.

“Cool!  Hmmm, let’s see,” Peter propped his head on his chin.  “Could you look at me for a sec?”

The guy complied, turning his head.  Peter took in his features, the strong jaw that was evident even behind the scruffy beard, and those eyes, the eyes that were simultaneously his most vibrant feature and the one that aged him the most.  The told wordless stories, spoke of pain and suffering they had endured for longer than Peter could hope to imagine. Spoke of unfathomable horrors, the likes of which no person should reasonably able to survive.  Eyes that had survived so much in the real world, they couldn’t stand staying there for long. They kept sliding just out of contact with Peter’s own, settling on a point just over Peter’s shoulder, staring distantly at something Peter could never hope to see.

Peter pushed these thoughts away in favor of the task at hand, and huffed.  “Umm...Well, you definitely remind me of a John, but I have a friend named John, so that’d be confusing.  Jerry?” The guy wrinkled his nose, just a bit. “Nah, you’re right, doesn’t work. Uh, sorry, I’m not great at names.” Peter cast around for inspiration, looking for parts of the guy that were distinctive, caught his attention.  “Blue?” he suggested, settling on the guy’s eyes.

The guy huffed, turning forward again, letting his hair curtain obscure his face.  He had looked…almost insulted. Peter had noticed his lip was already naturally pouty, but somehow Peter didn’t remember it sticking out quite that far before.  It was just enough deviation from what Peter was figuring was the guy’s normal impassivity that he couldn’t contain a snort, which turned into a laugh. The guy ducked his head a bit, and Peter could make out a furrowed brow.  Oh yeah, it definitely wasn’t Peter’s imagination; the spark of indignation may be small, but it was there.

Peter gasped, clutching one hand to his chest as he got control of himself, waving the other one dismissively.  “Sorry, I’m sorry, come back. Come back, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. That’s really more of a dog’s name, isn’t it?”  It worked, the guy faced him again. “ Man, I’m the worst, ignore me. Just forget that happened.”

The guy huffed again, but the hint of a smile was back.  Peter could have sworn it sparkled in the depths of the guy’s eyes.

Peter grinned.  “Maybe I’ll just cycle through some generic ones and we’ll see what sticks.  Sound good, Todd?” The guy didn’t even twitch. Nope, cross that one off the list. “Okay, Jake?”  Ehhh. Could be better. “Matt? Mark, Luke, not John. Uh, don’t remember what comes next, ummm…Steve?  Hen--are you okay!?” he exclaimed in horror.

The guy had just been sitting calmly, no variation from the expression of passivity with vague amusement dancing in his eyes, humoring Peter.  Until “Steve,” when he jolted like he’d been struck by lightning. Faster than even Peter’s eyes were capable of tracking, the guy left his side, and reappeared deep in the alley with his back pushed up against the dead end wall, trying to scoot himself even farther back fruitlessly.  Shrinking in on himself, eyes wide with horror. Peter could do nothing but watch; frozen in place with shock.

The man choked on nothing, then a broken sound grew in his chest as he plunged clawed fingers into his matted tangle of hair, clutching his head with punishing grip.  He curled up, bringing his head to his knees, the sound cutting off abruptly as he started to shake in complete silence, muscles tensed painfully. It reminded him horrifyingly of the panic he had caused Dr. Banner.  It reminded him of the attack he had back in the woods that first night and in John’s house, that overwhelming panic.  _ Oh. _

The spell was broken, and Peter found himself inching closer, carefully, until he was several feet away.  He got down to his knees again. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he wanted to help. He needed to help, like he failed to help Dr. Banner, and how Theo and John had helped him.  This guy had helped Peter, when he had lost it earlier, had sat next to a complete stranger and gave them a nice handkerchief to use. Peter inched even closer, but the guy’s flinch told him that was as close as he could get.  So he just settled down where he was, sitting down again on the nasty pavement, and decided to just be there for him. A benign presence, just there so another person wouldn’t have to feel this way alone. 

In a way, it reminded him of Spider-Man’s habit of break times with the pigeons he’d meet on rooftops, keeping a companionable distance between them as he took a snack break, an understanding that as long as Peter didn’t push their boundaries, they would stay.  Like then, he waited patiently, and tried not to think about the…substance…slowly seeping through the not exactly thin material of his sweatpants. Nope, think about churros. Hot and golden and crunchy and awesome. Especially when they were free. He could go for a churro right about now.  Not that he deserved one.

Eventually, some of the tension bled from the guy’s shoulders, coming down from just under his earlobes to, um, a point slightly farther down than just under his earlobes.  But enough that Peter got the sense that the guy might not make a run for it if he got a bit closer. So he did, inch by careful inch, until he was settled by the guy’s right side, just as close as before.  Maybe even a hair closer. Then Peter inched his hand out. The guy tensed, so Peter brought it back to his lap. They sat side by side for a while, until the accusatory silence of the night became too much for him to bear.  He ‘d caused this guy to panic, just like Dr. Banner.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said quietly, staring forward, at nothing that was there.  “I’m not sure what that name means to you, but--I’m just sorry. Names are important, and special, like the people they belong to, and they can just hurt, sometimes.”  He bit his lip. “I know it might not be the same, but after my Uncle Ben died, sometimes I’d hear someone say ‘Ben’ when I was out. Like, just people on their phones, or calling out to someone across the sidewalk.  And I  _ knew _ it wasn’t him, I did.  It couldn’t be. But for a moment, I’d get so excited.  Then I’d turn around, with this big grin on my face, looking everywhere for him.   _ Where,  _ I’d want to say.  Sometimes I could even see him, I swear I could, just for a moment.  But then he was gone. He wasn’t there. He wasn’t even there in the first place.” He chuckled bitterly.  “I was stupid.  _ I  _ was stupid.  Of course he wasn’t fucking  _ there _ , he was dead.  I had killed him.”    


Peter was quiet for a moment, waiting for something.  Maybe judgement, or horror. But none came. So he continued.  “And then there would come this crushing disappointment. Like I had any business missing him in the first place.  I was the only reason he was gone,” he spat. 

He jumped, a bit, at the huff that came from his right.

“It was!” Peter insisted.  “If I hadn’t been there, if-he would have been just fine, he-Uncle Ben,” he choked.  He hadn’t told anyone this before. But something about this moment, the cool concrete under him, the still air, the impassive figure at his side, it didn’t really feel real.  It was almost dreamlike. The delusion loosened his tongue, and his most secret, shameful thoughts came crashing out of the box he had kept shoving these thoughts into over the past two years.  They wanted out. They  _ needed  _ out.  He couldn’t stop now.

“I was up late,” he began, voice low.  “Past my bedtime. Reading under the covers again, with a flashlight.  Even though I’d just gotten that book back after getting detention for sleeping in class again, since I was tired from being up all night reading.  I got thirsty, maybe sometime around two, and I figured I’d get a glass of water before actually maybe going to sleep, just after I finished the chapter, or the next one, if things got good.  But there was someone in the kitchen already, and I didn’t notice them until I had gotten a glass out of the cupboard. Then I saw the guy, dressed all in black with a scarf tied around his face like in those cheesy movies. I dropped the glass.  It was loud, when it shattered, and he pointed a gun at me, yell-whispering things like ‘who’s in the house’ in between swear words. And I...I lied to him, told him it was just me, but it must have been obvious I was lying (I’ve always been a terrible liar), because he just came closer, and yelled at me.  Asked me again, and I told him. Told him it was just me and Uncle Ben and Aunt May. And then Uncle Ben was there.”

Peter choked, his throat closing up.  But he pushed through. “He must have heard me drop the glass.  Came to check it out. Check up on me. So the guy yells at Uncle Ben not to get any closer, but Uncle Ben has his hands up, says he doesn’t care about anything else, just asks the guy to allow him to take me back to bed, and then he could do whatever he wanted.  Said that I’m just a kid. The guy says no, tells me to stand with Uncle Ben, to go over to him slowly. And I managed it, almost. I’m almost there, but then I got scared, like a little kid and not like a guy who got-er, not like...well, anyway. I got really scared, and couldn’t stand being any farther away from Uncle Ben than I was.  So I ran those last few steps. And the guy panicked, and he pulled the trigger. It was so loud, I closed my eyes. And when I opened them, Uncle Ben…” Peter panted, panic cinching his chest tight. “He was looking straight at me, holding me close, back turned to the guy. He shielded me. Somehow, he got in front of me. Said, ‘You alright, Pete?’, calm as anything.  And I thought, everything’s fine. But then his eyes kind of glazed over, and he slid down the ground, and he was just...just  _ covered  _ in it.  He was wearing a white shirt.  I just....I remember my hands. They were hot, and wet, so I looked down, and there was just red.  So much, it soaked through my socks…”

He couldn’t go on, lost all that red, the  _ Take care of May _ ’s, the wail of the ambulance, the tackiness of blood drying on his hands, May’s never-ending cries of  _ Ben, Ben, oh God, not Ben _ .  And the smell of iron, and antiseptic, and death.  Of too many flowers, of food filling the freezer instead of going to waste from being set out at a funeral that few bothered to attend, of endless hours stuck listening to his aunt’s soft sobs through the wall where she thought Peter couldn’t hear.  Lost in the hours upon hours of muffling his own cries, unable to put that burden on May, after causing all of this in the first place, drowning in his guilt alone. Alone. Just where he deserved to be.

He drew his knees up, and rested his forehead on their bony caps.

He just couldn’t stop hurting the people who got close to him, could he?  The people who were kind to him. First were his parents, then Uncle Ben. Liz.  Poor Dr. Banner. Aunt May, the way he worried her all the time, put so much pressure on her.  Same with Ned. “All my fault,” he mumbled, tangling his good hand roughly in his hair, the few tears that remained soaking through the sweatpants.  Someone who caused this much damage shouldn’t be allowed to exist. It was just common sense. It would be easier for everyone if he was gone. Better.

But then there was something warm on his his hand, stroking the back of it with the utmost delicacy.  Peter was so confused, his hand twitched, and he allowed it to be coaxed away from its death grip on his hair.  He focused on the way it was gently untangled and removed, then released with a squeeze when Peter moved to wipe his eyes.

Peter looked over, shocked, and there was a set of steel grey eyes, filled with empathy so deep Peter felt he could drown it it.  It hit him. He wasn’t alone. Not really. Somehow, in this moment, he had found a companionship like no other with this person he didn’t even know.  He marveled briefly, before the guy shifted, reaching behind himself, to pull something off his shoulder, and placed it between them. It was…

“My backpack,” Peter croaked.  “Oh my God, thank you  _ so  _ much, you have no idea…”  He reached out with shaking hands.  Opened it up, rummaging around, reassuring himself that it was all still there, that the suit was still there, before he grabbed the water bottle.  He fumbled with the twist cap for only a couple of seconds before it was removed from his hands with a sigh, then handed back to him, open. 

“Thanks,” Peter mumbled, before taking a long drink.  Then he offered it to the guy, who accepted with a nod.  Peter took the opportunity to check the rest of the bag, pausing at the sight of a familiar brown paper bag decorated with familiar doodles.  He frowned.

“Hey, I thought I...you!” he exclaimed.  The guy raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “I thought I gave this to a guy, and I did, and that was you.”  Peter opened it up, seeing all the food still there. His brow furrowed. “You didn’t even open it. Aren’t you hungry?”

The guy went still, then shrugged.

Peter’s brow wrinkled in confusion.  “If you’re hungry, why not eat? I gave it to you, it’s yours.”

The guy hung his head.

In a burst of inspiration, Peter removed a banana, peeled it, then broke it in half.  He took a bite of his own half, then handed the other to the guy, who took it blankly.  “It’ll go to waste if you don’t eat it now,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “So you might as well.”

The guy blinked, then turned away so Peter couldn’t see.  But soon after, sounds of soft chewing reached his ears, growing in volume and pace as the seconds passed.  Peter grinned.

They went through one of the sandwiches like that, and a granola bar, before it hit Peter.  “Jay,” he said. The guy looked at him. “I’m going to call you Jay, if that’s alright.”

The guy considered him for a moment, then nodded.

“Thank you, Jay,” Peter said.  “For the handkerchief, and getting my backpack back.  I have no idea how you caught up to that guy, or even knew that I needed help in the first place, but thank you.  And, uh, sorry for...um,” Crying? Unloading? “Um, just thank you.”

Peter began the process of getting his body off the ground, and groaned, sore from crouching on the hard surface for so long.  “Well, time to find a new way back to Queens, I guess. Hope the bikers got to their hotel okay, that they didn’t spend too long waiting for me.”

Jay got to his feet in one smooth movement. He waited for Peter to gather his things, then gestured for him to follow.  Peter just shrugged, and went along with it, not in any rush to leave the man who he felt such a connection with, weaving through the alleys with him at a speed he wouldn’t have expected from someone who looked so gaunt and tired.  “Where are we going?” Peter asked. There was no answer. 

But soon enough, there was a break in the buildings, and a familiar park came into view.  As they approached, he saw three familiar figures arguing with two men in familiar uniforms, police uniforms.  One of the men was holding up his hands placatingly while the other took notes.

“He’s just a kid, you assholes, you’re not taking me seriously!  I did not serve my country for twenty years to be treated like a batty old woman!  Are you sure you have his description down? Brown hair, brown eyes, left arm injury?  Ye high? And he should answer to-Peter!!” Mabel exclaimed, hurrying over to where Peter was, smothering him in a tight hug while the other two hovered around.

“Don’t you fucking  _ do that to us again _ , you hear me!?” she growled.  Peter nodded against her shoulder, tears slipping out despite having cried more in a matter of hours than he had in years.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, starting to shake.  “I didn’t mean to, I got lost.”

She sighed, but patted his back.  “It’s done now, no need to dwell. Who was that with you?”

“Oh,” Peter pulled away.  “That was Jay, he took me back here.  He’s great, you should all--” he looked around, “Wait, where did he go?”  At his words, everyone looked around. Sandy shrugged, and one of the policemen scratched his head.

But there was nothing but the night, the river, and the cold, cold wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter chases the bag thief, catches up, but knocks himself out. When he comes to the bag is gone, and Peter loses it, exhausted and stressed and overwhelmed, and he cries for a while. Then he's offered a handkerchief, and he realizes there's a guy sitting beside him. The guy doesn't talk, and is pretty impassive. Peter freaks out about what the protocol is surrounding using someone else's handkerchief, and the guy chuckles. Peter decides the guy needs a name, and since the guy won't tell Peter what it is, he tries to come up with one. He runs through generic names, but when he says, 'Steve,' it sends the guy into a panic attack. Peter is reminded uncomfortably of the attack he caused Dr. Banner, and he resolves to help this guy. He waits it out, until the guy calms down. Peter sympathizes, telling the guy how names had weight, and that he used to hear Ben's name in public then get upset when he couldn't find him, and then be mad at himself bc he knew Ben was dead. He killed him. 
> 
> Peter gives a detailed account of how Uncle Ben died, the first time he's told anyone about that night in detail. He was up past his bedtime reading, and went to get a glass of water, but there was a robber in the house. He dropped the glass, Uncle Ben came out to check. The robber told Peter to get with Ben, but Peter panicked and ran, despite having superpowers at this point. The gun went off, and when Peter opened his eyes, Ben was shielding him, and he'd been shot. Ben had died, and it was Peter's fault. 
> 
> Peter halts the story, and silently reflects on how everyone would be better off if Peter didn't exist. Then he sees the guy, and there's so much empathy in the guy's gaze that Peter feels a strong connection to him. Then the guy takes Peter's backpack off his shoulders. Peter finds John's lunch bag in there, and realizes this guy is the guy sleeping in the doorway Peter had given food to earlier, but none was taken, so he shares it with the man then. He decides to call him Jay. Jay guides him back to the park, where he's shocked to see the biker women he thought were long gone reporting him missing to the police. The women are relieved to have Peter back, and he gets hugs. He wants to introduce them to Jay, but when he turns around, Jay is gone.
> 
> ~~
> 
> Whew! That was a heavy chapter! But that was the end of act 4! So act 5 will either start tonight, or be posted in its entirety along with the epilogue tomorrow. Not long now!
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and the lovely comments! I'm a bit behind on revisions, so I might not get around to answering them until tomorrow, but I love hearing for each and every one of you. I'm glad you're enjoying the ride!
> 
> See you later!


	10. Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of the end! Woo!!!!

Peter could hardly believe it when he saw the familiar row of buildings first blur the horizon, then rise proudly from the crease between earth and sky.

Finally. Home was within reach.

It felt like it was several lifetimes ago since he’d seen it last, like he’d aged years over the course of several days. God, he was going to be in so much trouble. It was stupid, thinking that May wouldn’t notice anything was amiss if he got back before Sunday. Even if it wasn’t Sunday now, his appearance would definitely give him away. He didn’t even want to think about how much trouble he was going to be in. Just as well, then, that thinking was almost impossible at this point, his brain staticky with anticipation and the promise of rest. All he wanted was a number five from Delmar’s and about a week’s sleep in his own bed. 

Not that the hotel bed was bad, last night. He just felt kind of awkward sharing with someone he didn’t know, even if it someone as grandmotherly as Nora. Surprisingly, she didn’t give him shit for letting something completely cheesy in that vein slip out. (“I don’t have a grandma, but if I did, I don’t think she’d be half as awesome as you three.”) Neither did the others, for that matter, and he actually kind-of expected a black eye from Mabel. Although Mabel did excuse herself to the bathroom pretty suddenly. Anyway, it would be nice to sleep without jerking awake every so often worried that he’d shifted out of place in his sleep and woke his bedmate. In his own bed, he was free to sprawl, and hopefully, sleep all afternoon before he had to return to school tomorrow. He could hardly wait.

Even so, as they finally crossed the bridge, and took the tunnel into Manhattan, Peter found his throat going tight at the thought of leaving these three behind. They pulled into a garage so the women could catch their show (they had had a slow start, that morning), and they all pulled him in for a careful hug, mindful of his arm. 

“You’re going to call us when you get back,” Mabel informed him, handing him a piece of paper from the pad the hotel provided with a phone number written neatly across it longways.

“Maybe you can meet us for dinner!” Sandy said.

“If you’re not in too much trouble,” Nora added. Then she drew him in for an extra hug.

Peter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly when they parted. “Yeah, well. No promises. Thank you all so much. Riding was awesome. You guys are awesome.”

Mabel clapped him on his good shoulder, and looked him in the eye. “Hey. You’re a good kid. No, really,” she insisted, over Peter’s sputtering protests. “You are. Don’t get me wrong, you’re definitely the trouble type, but your heart’s in the right place. I don’t see that a lot anymore. You hold tight to that, okay?” He choked, and she brought him in close for another hug. “You hold tight to that, even when it shit hits the fan,” she murmured. “ Even when people spit on you for it, even when it feels like it’s doing nothing but getting you hurt. Because, believe you me, it hurts more when it’s gone.”

“Okay,” he whispered, mainly to fill the silence. He had no words. Despite the emotions threatening to wet his cheeks, he was able to muster a grin as he hoisted his bag. “Thanks for everything!”

And with a last round of you take care of yourself, honey’s, Peter was on his own in Manhattan. The last leg of his journey. Nearly home. 

As he walked down the street, seeking out the nearest subway entrance and falling into the familiar dance of avoiding tourists, nostrils filled with foul alley fumes and hotdog grease and ears filled with the chorus of mid morning traffic and music and chatter, his heart filled and his shoulders relaxed fully for the first time in days. Back in familiar territory at last. He knew these streets, the sights, the sounds. And if there was more chatter than normal, if there were slightly more people on the train than there should be, then he could excuse it as being too used to quiet towns and less crowded urban centers.

And as he used the spare change to grab a day pass for the subway and bus meant for tourists (his card sitting safely in his wallet back at the Compound), he felt a bit like one. Tuned more into the people and sights and sounds of the station than he had been since the first time his Aunt and Uncle had taken him to Manhattan. He exited the subway, and boarded the bus. The city felt new yet familiar, all at once, as he gazed upon it with a new appreciation. It felt shiner, newer, yet ancient. It felt like a homecoming, new fondness for his hometown welling in his chest.

This feeling blossomed staggeringly as he exited the bus and stepped out into Queens. He walked the streets, and felt dangerously close to tears. Relief weighed his limbs, his body already dozens of steps ahead, sprawled out on his bed. Should he take a shower first? Ugh, he wasn’t sure. A shower would feel amazing, but it just felt like so much work, standing there and washing himself and drying off. He wasn’t sure he had the energy. But if he didn’t, he’d have to wash his sheets later, and he really didn’t have the energy for that. Especially after the dressing-down he was sure to get. 

But luckily, his Aunt was normally at work at this time, so that would be a problem for future Peter, he thought, as he stepped up to his building, and rummaged around in his bag for his key. Maybe he’d grab a snack first, take it back to bed with him. He should still have about half a pint of cookie dough in the freezer, if Aunt May hadn’t gotten ahold of it. May would never admit it, but she had a massive sweet tooth. She- 

He frowned, halting his rummaging, and swinging the backpack off his shoulder to give it a proper look. He was only working with one hand, after all, he could easily be missing it. But a visual didn’t really make a difference. His keys, where the heck were his keys!?

Peter whacked himself on the forehead. Duh. Of course he didn’t have his fucking keys, they were back at the compound with everything else that would have been useful, like his phone and subway pass. So fucking close, yet so far. God, he was an idiot. The IDIOT of idiots. 

Wait, maybe May had left the door unlocked. 

He buzzed Mrs. Sanchez on the fourth floor, and told her he had forgotten his keys. The older woman let him up straight away, told him to visit more often. “Thanks!” he grinned, and jogged up the stairs, hoping that maybe just this once, May had forgotten to lock the door.

Of course, there was no such luck. He rattled the doorknob fruitlessly, banged it with a palm, then turned around and slid to the ground. He didn’t know what he was thinking. May hadn’t forgotten to lock the door since Uncle Ben died last year. 

Damn it. 

He groaned, bringing his head to his knees. This was a special kind of torture, the promise of food and sleep taunting him behind a flimsy plank of wood. He couldn’t call May to let him in, he couldn’t retrace his steps and grab his keys. Where was he supposed to go?

Wait. Mrs. Sanchez.

He walked down a flight of stairs, and, after a slight hesitation, knocked on 429. It was answered by an older woman, who lit up upon seeing Peter.

“Hello, Peter!” she smiled. “What brings you here?”

He smiled back. “Hola, Mrs. Sanchez. Yo, uh, forgot mis llaves.”

She chuckled, but let him inside. “It has been a while since this has happened. Everything okay?”

“Um, mostly,” he said. “May’s gonna be pretty mad, though.”

The woman patted his hand. “These things happen. Would you like to call her?”

Peter smiled at her weakly. “Not really, but I should. She worries.”

“Good boy,” she said, digging out her cell phone and unlocking it for him before going back to the TV.

Peter punched in a familiar number, hesitating before pressing the call button, suddenly paralyzed with dread. May was going to be pissed, he hoped she wouldn’t pick up.

But of course, she did, after the first two rings. Just his luck.

“Rita?” a familiar voice asked on the other end, sealing his throat. “Is everything all right?”

Peter couldn’t answer, paralyzed. “Dios mio,” Mrs. Sanchez cursed emphatically from the couch, and Peter turned around and looked at the screen. Shit.

“I just heard what’s happening in Queens, you’re not visiting your sister, are you?” May continued on the line, and Peter was torn between answering her and paying attention to the disaster zone the TV was displaying. He couldn’t deal. “Hello?” He hung up.

“Turn on the volume, Mrs. Sanchez.” 

She frowned back at him. “Couldn’t you reach her, boy?”

Peter looked at her desperately, widening his brown eyes into the puppy dog stare he knew adults had trouble resisting. “Please, this is is important.”

So the woman shrugged, and turned on the volume, translator subtitles staying in place as footage played of a giant thing tearing up Prospect Park. It kind of looked like a bug of some sort, but it was hard to tell. The camera shots weren’t great. The announcers narrated the shaky footage, then the shot cut back to an anchor with impressive cheekbones. “And, of course, with the Brooklyn in a state of emergency, the question on everyone’s minds is, where are the Avengers? Rumor has it that the group of heroes was last spotted in rural Pennsylvania, trekking through the woods. A late season hiking trip, perhaps? Or hot on the heels of something more sinister?”

Peter’s blood ran cold. Oh no. They must be looking for him. He was a officially a fugitive. He was too young to go to jail! It was stupid to think he could just come home, be done. They wouldn’t let him. And he wasn’t ready to face that. To face them. He didn’t think he ever would be.

But they were only away from the city because of him. That made everything about this situation his fault. His responsibility. He had to do something. 

The borrowed cell phone started buzzing, and he thrust it into Mrs. Sanchez’s hands with a quick “Thanks, sorry, gotta go, bye!” and ran out the door before the woman could squeeze a word in edgewise. 

His stomach churned, as he sprinted back up the stairs. Oh man, he had done it now. Spider-Man had gotten the city into this mess, so it was Spider-Man’s responsibility to get them out. Yet Spider-Man was in NO way ready for this. He was down a suit, and an arm. And not even adrenaline could cut through the bone deep exhaustion accumulated over the stress of the past three days. But, in the end, it didn’t matter. There were lives at stake. He had no choice.

He ran up the stairs, screeching to a halt in front of a certain door on the fifth floor. He murmured, “Sorry, Aunt May,” before he wound up, and neatly kicked down the door of their apartment.

 

<<>>

 

Ughhhh. He did not want to do this. Not at all, not even a little bit. He was just so, so tired, he nodded off a few times on the train to Brooklyn. (What? He couldn’t exactly swing to Brooklyn, not with a busted arm and with only the row houses of the suburbs to work with. That disastrous night running through the suburbs after the Vulture came to mind.) 

What kind of discount villain commits to invading one of the largest cities on the Eastern Seaboard and settles on Brooklyn?! Peter supposed he was about to find out. The bus stopped a few stations early, but that was fine; he needed to find somewhere to change, anyways. Since it was broad daylight and there were few alleys to speak of, Peter decided to go with the unattended construction site port-a-potty route for changing. Which was disgusting as ever, thank you for asking. (Seriously, there was no excuse for the floor to be this wet and sticky. 0/10, would not recommend.) He struggled into his ‘vintage’ Spidey suit, fighting the confined space and a bum arm. 

That arm could be a serious problem here. He only hoped he could manage well enough with one. He decided to keep the brace on, then, he attached that arm to his body with a bit of webbing, just on the inside. There, just like wearing an invisible sling. Now he was ready!

Just had to make the rest of the commute. His legs were still sore from weeks of camping, but his own shoes felt amazing on his sore, blistery feet. Nothing beat a reliable pair of sneakers. Made climbing a bit harder, but eh. It was the park. Not like climbing had done him a whole lot of good the last time he’d fought in a forested setting.

He was trying not to think about that now, but it’s not like he had a lot else to think about as he jogged through the town, people pointing and whispering at his choice of attire. He frowned. This was supposed to be New York, land of zero fucks. Why was everyone so interested in his choice of clothing, all of a sudden?

Whatever. He was basically there. Time to get an eyeful of the beast terrorizing the park.

It was a stupid grasshopper. Granted, a huge grasshopper, easily the size of a mini van. But it wasn’t really doing too much, honestly, just lumbering around, destroying historic buildings. It was slow enough that Peter honestly didn’t see the big deal. All the people could just run away, no big. Jeez.

He came all the way out here for this?! Against his will, his shoulders slumped with relief. He didn’t know if he should be grateful it wasn’t anything major or pissed at the news stations for blowing this way out of proportion. Under different circumstances, it would almost be funny. Almost.

“I’m too fucking tired for this,” Spider-Man grumbled as he approached the bug to contain the situation. If he was running on more than three hours of sleep, tops, he’d make some sort of joke about nature, and the spider webbing the insect or something. He didn’t know. It was there somewhere, he was sure of it. He got in close. He hog tied it with webbing, and it went down. This is too easy, he thought to himself. Wait. This really was too easy. A shadow fell over him. He frowned.

Then his spider sense blared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly there! One more chapter to go and the epilogue! I hope you guys aren't too disappointed with the way this thing wraps up. I'm not entirely happy with the ending, but I honestly can't think of a better way to end it. If I ever do, maybe I'll post an alternate ending, who knows. I'm still a bit behind schedule, so I won't be able to answer all your comments tonight. I'll get to them, I promise!
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for reading! This has been so much fun, and I'm glad I could share it all with you. See you tomorrow!


	11. Oh, Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter for giant insects, blood and guts, needles, and medical stuff. 
> 
> Last full chapter!!!! Here we go!

Peter ducked and rolled.  He marveled that it was mostly pain-free; the way he had his arm pinned to his body was working, thank God.  A loud  _ thump _ filled his ears.  Something had landed right where Peter had been standing.  Something heavy

He rolled a bit further away, then used the momentum to roll himself up onto his feet in one fluid movement (a trick from the Widow) into a dead sprint, putting distance between himself and his attackers.  He circled around, and chanced a look; they were much smaller versions of the grasshopper that was burrowing into the ground. Don’t get him wrong, they were still huge; each was about the size of a small dog.  Think corgi, not chihuahua. 

Peter shuddered.  He wasn’t afraid of bugs by any means. Heck, he remembered a time when he wanted to be an entomologist, after Uncle Ben had taken him hunting for fireflies at the local park.  But that phase was short-lived; science was no fun when you could only watch. He wanted to be part of the action, like his hero, Tony Stark. Mr. Stark built things, made things better with his own two hands.  Peter wanted to do that, too. So his dreams of studying bugs faded away. He kind of regretted that now, faced with some of the largest bugs he had ever seen. And the nastiest. 

So while he wasn’t normally afraid of bugs, ones big enough to take his fingers off with their mandibles were kind of an exception to the rule.  Plus those claws and big bulging eyes...eesh. No wonder people were so scared. What  _ were  _ these things?

He needed to get a better look.  He veered closer, but two more appeared.  He heard them coming this time, and it was kind of amazing he didn’t before.  They made an incredibly loud droning buzz, and the wind coming off the wings was unbelievably strong.  Peter ducked, rolled, and ran agian, but these two continued pursuit. They buzzed past him, clipping him a few times.  If he could just get an opening, he could gum up their wings. They definitely had the advantage in this open field. There was nothing for Peter to climb; nowhere to hide. 

Peter gasped as his spider sense sent crazy, then pain bloomed across his shoulders.  He felt cool air on his skin, then the sting. The bugs had torn into him with their claws. 

A fresh wave of adrenaline rushed into his bloodstream, and he was able to pull a few quick sidesteps, then a long sprint.  He was finally far enough away to use his webshooters. Or, rather, webshooter. He shot a gob of web fluid towards the bug, aiming for the wings.    


“Shit!” he hissed when the bug rolled, webbing splattering uselessly on the ground.  He really couldn’t afford to waste this stuff. He was proud of his original shooters, still was.  He made them himself, out of components he pulled out of dumpsters and MacGyvered together with solder and duct tape.  They were  _ awesome _ .  At least, he thought they were, until he’d gotten a taste of what Mr. Stark’s could do.  Peter didn’t have over 500 web combinations programmed into these. But that was okay, he had managed for months before Mr. Stark swooped in.    


No, the real design flaw here was the shooters’ storage capacity.  This model could only hold one cartridge at a time. Peter had tried to develop a feeder system, but he simply lacked the tools, and had eventually abandoned the idea.  No matter what he did, the design was just too bulky, forming an obvious ring around his wrist that the baddies  _ loved  _ to grab.  And then it would jam, and he’d spend a week fixing it, and the cycle would continue.  They were more trouble than they were worth.

The grasshoppers dived again, and Peter dodged.  His breathing was already getting heavy. He wasn’t used to running continuously; during a normal patrol, he would work in a series of sprints with breaks in between.  Plus, after the weekend from hell, he was running on fumes. Too little food, too little sleep, and  _ way  _ too much stress had drained his reserves completely, leaving him with a bone-deep ache that was growing more painful by the minute.  His head was growing hazier. He had a time limit, here. Unfortunately, the oversized insects did not. 

What was he thinking about?  Oh yeah, conserving his webbing.  He couldn’t get a feeder system to work in his original shooters, so he used a cartridge replacement system instead.  When the mechanism misfired, he’d have to take out the empty cartridge and reload the slot with a new one just like you’d do with bullets to a gun.  It was slow, made slower by the contraption being fiddly. The cartridge needed to be inserted at just the right angle for it to click into place. It was motivation enough to finish fights quickly, before his two cartridges ran out, one per hand.  It wasn’t hard to accomplish back when he had only encountered muggers and the occasional stabby car thief. But as the villains got bigger and bolder...well, Mr. Stark had stepped in with an upgrade in the nick of time. 

Peter gasped for air, his lungs burning.  He got another cut across his back, and a shiver crawled up his spine at the chilling sound of mandibles clicking dangerously close to his ear.  He needed a plan. Fast.

It was impossible to think with these things up his butt, so he cut across the hill, and spotted a huge group of trees.  That should slow the things down. He put on a burst of speed, and sprinted confidently through the trees, quick stepping over roots and avoiding rocks with ease.  It was a huge improvement over Thursday. He grinned. He’d had a lot of practice since then.

The buzzing was getting farther and farther away, the bugs’ expansive wingspans coupled with the trees’ proximity forcing them to slow down a lot.  Peter doubled back, then sprinted right up the side of a tree, and perched soundlessly on one of the upper branches, and took a minute to catch his breath as quietly as he possibly could, one hand holding his chest as he tried to gasp silently.

Man, those bugs were freaky.  And extremely aggressive. Peter wondered what the heck they were doing here in the first place, but that could wait until he took care of the more urgent side of this; he needed to contain them, somehow.  Keep people from getting hurt, because he was the only person who could. It was his fault that he was the only capable person around.

_ Focus, _ he told himself sternly.  He’d have time to dwell on this later.  For now, he just had to fix it. But how?

He eyed the two hoppers nervously where they had landed, and were now scuttling across the ground at alarming speeds.  Got, those things really were huge. But they were super cool, too. Peter couldn’t help but admire the glinting of their exoskeletons in the tree-mottled sunlight.  Gorgeous colors, too; greens and yellows with just a touch of red at the joints of their strong hind legs. Black stripes decorated their abdomens. Spiders ate grasshoppers.  He felt really close to his spider side like this, looking down at the bugs from up high, like a spider stalking its prey. Just waiting for them to-hey! That was an idea! He’d only get one shot, though.  He only had one cartridge in each shooter. This was going to be tough.

He carefully backed himself down the tree, then crept to  the edge of the clearing. He hadn’t been spotted yet, but he’d have to work quickly.  He starting spraying, and his left cartridge almost immediately misfired. He pried the case out of the band, the threw it on the ground in frustration, no time to waste.  Peter spun his web quickly but accurately, stretching thin ropes across a wide swath of trees near the entrance to the field. Buzzing filled his ears, and his heart thumped desperately in his ears.  Nearly out of time. No, out of time. It was now or never.

He took a deep breath, and yelled.  “Hey, Uglies! Over here!!” Not his best material, for sure, but he was tired.  Give him a break.

A thunderous buzzing all but shook the trees, and Peter paled.  His stomach sank. That sounded like a  _ hell  _ of a lot more than two.  But he stood his ground, waving his arms and dancing in place as six of the things rose from the trees, coming straight for him.  Then smacked into the web, hard. The buzzing sound got kind of muffled as the things struggled, tangling themselves further.

Peter whooped, and threw his good fist in the air.  He did it! He laughed, bending over to catch his breath.  That was easy! No big deal. 

The grasshoppers buzzed angrily in their sticky prison.  Peter looked up reflexively, apprehensive. The buzzing went up another pitch, and his webs were suddenly shredded, bits flying this way and that.  And he found himself face to face with six extremely pissed off insects.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered.  Then ran. Back into the clearing, circling around the one that was the size of a mini van.  Trying desperately to put distance between himself and the swarm accumulating. The good news was that his webbing lingered, gumming up the things’ wings and slowing their flight down to a manageable pace.  The bad news was that there were more of them now, and more were flocking to the group by the minute. With every grasshopper that joined, Peter’s stomach sank just a little bit further. 

He was doomed.  There was no way he could stop all these.  He had nowhere near enough webbing. Webbing that was nowhere near effective enough.  The only reasonable option would be to save himself. Run away, the thing he was best at.

But this was his fault.  And running wasn’t what heroes did.

Maybe, just this once, Peter could be a hero.

He squared his shoulders, deciding he was done running.  He hated it. The fear, the uncertainty. The loss of control.  Well, no more. He planted his feet. If Spider-Man was going to go out here, it would be on his own terms.  And he chose to go out fighting for his home. If he was its only defender, that was no one’s fault but his own.  It might be better this way.

He pivoted, and swung his fist hard, socking that first bug solidly, punching past its harder exterior until he hit squshy insides.  It hit the ground with a squelchy crunch, and then the others were upon him. Tearing at his clothes, ripping the side of his mask. Getting through to skin.  Peter gave as good as he got, but they just kept coming, more and more. And there was only one of him.

And he couldn’t.  Spider-Man couldn’t, Peter couldn’t.  He couldn’t do it. His head was hazy, and his arm grew sluggish.  This was it, he was done. So he covered his head, and curled up in a ball, resigned to his fate.   _ I’m sorry _ , he thought, to no one in particular.    


Then a gunshot rang out, and the insects on top of him fluttered as Peter gasped and jumped.  Oh, how he hated that sound. But instead of sending him spiraling like last time, it woke him up.  Wait, what was he doing?! Giving up was just another kind of running away; how stupid was he?

He redoubled his efforts, pushing past his limit.  He managed to rip a bug off his shoulder, and tossed it away.  It immediately exploded, at the same time a muffled bang rang through the field.  He jumped, as he was sprayed with guts, and he ripped another one off. It exploded as well, and Peter recognized that sound.  Realized that there was a person with a gun that probably had a silencer attached. The accessory made all the difference to Peter, varied the sound just enough that it didn’t send him into a panic.    


Then the significance hit him.  Someone had a gun. Someone was  _ helping  _ him.  He had backup.  He wasn’t alone.  Something like happiness rushed into his chest, wild and heady.  Without his permission, he was on his feet again, running towards the sound.  The bugs trailed behind him, and they exploded one by one. He laughed. He cut to the side, giving the person a better angle.  The bugs were taken down faster, bits raining down. Until there was just one left on Peter, and he tossed it into the air as high as he could.

But this time a familiar whine filled the air as a blue pulse shattered the insect, charring the pieces, and filling his nose with the smell of burnt grasshopper flesh.    


Oh,  _ shit _ .

 

“Well, well, well.  Look who it is,” a slightly muffled, but familiar voice drawled, projected from a distinctive red and gold mechanical suit.  It landed in front of Peter with a thud. All the blood drained out of the teen’s face. This was it. He was a goner. The Avengers were going to get their revege, beat him up.  Take turns, probably. Then they were going to scrape what was left of his ass off of the ground, and throw it in jail, where he’d stay until old age took him. He’d never see Aunt May again, but maybe he’d get to see Uncle Ben.    


So Peter let his head thunk heavily forward, chin knocking against his chest, resigned to his fate as the suit straightened into standing.  And opened up. Mr. Stark ran over. Peter saw the shadow of an arm raise. He cringed.

He was pulled into a tight embrace.  Peter blinked in confusion, good arm trapped down by his side as Mr. Stark crushed his smelly, bloody, grasshopper-guts-splattered body flush against his (surprisingly) muscular chest.  A chest that was bouncing a bit. Because Mr. Stark- _ Tony Stark _ , the unflappable, the always cool under pressure, the man who never betrayed what he was feeling, no matter what-was  _ crying.   _ Honest to God sobbing, as he tucked Peter’s head under his chin, and lowered both of them carefully to sit on the ground without ever letting go when Peter’s knees went all rubbery.  And Peter realized that he was crying too, pressing his face into his mentor’s chest as he  _ wailed.    
_

He froze, mortified, but Mr. Stark just squeezed him carefully and rocked him a bit, brushing his hair softly with his lips.  “Hey, it’s okay, Pete, everything’s going to be okay now,” Mr. Stark was muttering, staying with Peter as he cried. “It’s alright, Peter.  You’re alright. You can cry, go on, let it out.” And Peter believed him, so he did, secure in the knowledge that he was safe at last.

 

~~   
  


After all that, time got kind of blurry for a while.    


 

He vaguely remembered some of the other Avengers coming over, asking him questions that he answered mechanically.  The mini-van-sized grasshopper was digging holes when he found it. It was probably the queen, and the others were protecting her.  They should probably check the holes; she might have been laying eggs. Some of the Avengers stayed behind to deal with it. His arm hurt.  His eye felt okay.

He went away for a bit once they boarded the quinjet.  He did remember that Mr. Stark didn’t leave his side, not for a minute.  Just sat close, rubbing soothing circles on the back of his good hand as Peter shivered under an emergency blanket.  We wasn’t cold, he just couldn’t stop shaking. Not even when the Falcon asked him for his arm, and slipped an IV into the vein on the first try with nothing but a slight pinch and burn.  He blinked down distantly at the thing poking out of his skin. Huh. 

Hands were encouraging him to lie back, and he let them guide him gently downwards, his eyes growing heavy.  Someone had taken the remnants of his mask off at some point, was playing with his hair. Scratching lightly at his scalp.  It felt really nice. Soothing. He hummed in appreciation as eyes slipped shut.

  
  


<<>>

  
  


He woke slowly, reluctantly.  He was just so warm, so comfortable.  And his eyes were so heavy, he ached to slip under once again.  But the beeping was persistent, bringing him closer to awareness against his will.  Stupid beeping, why couldn’t it just go away? He felt like he knew what it was, but the harder he thought about it, the farther away it got.  Stupid brain.

 

So he just drifted, in and out, until the beeping got far too real.  He became aware of a weight on his right hand, and he twitched, trying to get it off.  It squeezed his hand. No, something squeezed his hand. Someone. He had to know.

He cracked open heavy eyes, and made a breathy squeak of pain as too-bright light stabbed his pupils.  The lights instantly dimmed somewhat, so he tried again. Blinked a few times. 

“Peter?”  A familiar voice said softly, and the hand rubbed the back of his hand.  “Are you awake, sweetie?” He knew that voice. He turned his head. And there she was.

“Aunt May,” he said, and then his cheeks were wet.    


“Oh no, it’s alright, sweetheart, I’m right here,” May said, and her eyes got a bit teary as well.  Peter sniffed. May brought a tissue over and dabbed at his eyes. “Now stop that,” she joked. “You’re going to make  _ me  _ cry, and I, I was...” her voice wavered.  “Oh,  _ Peter _ , I’m just glad you’re okay.  I was so worried.”

And they were both sobbing, and laughing, and May was hugging him awkwardly, avoiding his left side.

“I missed you, May,” Peter whispered into her soft hair.    


“I missed you too, sweetheart.”  May squeezed him one more time, then withdrew slowly, and kissed his hand.  She reached over him and grabbed something from the bedside table, and held a cup with a bendy straw up to his lips.  He took it and drank eagerly, but only was able to get a few sips before it was being taken away. He made a noise of complaint, but she regarded him sternly.    


“Hush,” she said, then helped him sit up a bit more, and fixed his pillows.  Peter’s worry grew the stiffer she got as she fussed over him, her expression positively stormy.    


“May?” Peter ventured worriedly.  She looked at him. “I’m really sorry.”

She took a deep breath, then let it all out with a whoosh.

“I believe you, Peter,” she said, “But I’m still angry with you.   _ Very  _ angry.  Furious, really,” she said darkly.  “I mean, what were you  _ thinking _ , just, taking off like that, without letting anyone know where you where?  How could you do that to me? After Ben-” she stopped herself abruptly.

Peter couldn’t breathe, frozen, as tears flowed down his cheeks and guilt clawed his insides.

May composed herself again, and handed him a tissue.  He could just barely move his fingers just enough to take it.  He just let it dangle there. 

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said softly.  “That was out of line. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Okay,” he said numbly, and she kissed his hair.    


There was a light knock at the door.  Peter and May both looked over.

“You ready?” May asked.

Peter wiped his eyes hastily.  “Yeah,” he said softly. He braced himself

But it was just a nurse, here to deliver a tray of food and check his vitals, along with the bandages on his left arm.  Peter looked at him, a question in his eyes. “We had to re-break your arm,” the man explained. “So we put you under, did that, cleaned out those cuts while we were at it.  You were out a long time, though. Had us all a bit worried. You must have been exhausted.” He smiled at Peter, and Peter didn’t really know what he was supposed to say, so he just nodded.  The man took his gloves off and washed his hands, then swung over a small table and put a tray of mediocre-looking food. It looked like a lunch meat sandwich, some carrots and a jello cup. “I’ll be back after lunch,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

“Lunch!?" Peter said, alarmed.  “How long was I asleep!”

“Eat,” May said sternly.    


 

As soon as Peter had chewed and swallowed a few bites of the turkey sandwich (it was no Delmar’s, but he was hungry enough that it would do), May filled him in.  It was Monday. He had been out for going on twenty-one hours. They were in a private medical suite at the Avengers’ facility upstate, and everyone wanted to see him.

“Are you ready to talk to them now, or would you rather wait?” Aunt May asked, peeling the top off the green jello cup and replacing it on the tray for him.    


“I’d rather just skip that part,” Peter muttered to himself.  “Do I have to?” he said out loud.

“I’m not the only person who was worried sick,” she said pointedly.  “I think you know the answer to that.”

Peter sighed, poking listlessly at the jello.  If this was going to happen, he’d rather get it out of the way now.

“Now, I guess,” he said.

The door slammed open, and both Peter and May jumped as a large group of people poured in.  Mr. Stark was first in line, followed by Widow, Dr. Banner, Hawkeye, Captain America, and...someone else, someone familiar.    


“Are you fucking kidding me?!” May was fuming.  “Don’t you idiots know the meaning of-”    


“ _ Jay? _ ” Peter asked in disbelief.    


Mr. Stark looked around the room in confusion.  “Who the hell is  _ Jay _ ?  Ohhh, you must mean RoboCop here,” Mr. Stark said, poking his thumb over his shoulder.    


“Get out!” May hissed, and then proceeded to shoo the  _ Avengers  _ out the door like they were little kids and not the Earth’s Mightiest Defenders. “Two at a time at most, Jesus  _ Christ. _ ”  When most of the were out, save Mr. Stark, who the Widow left with a pat on the shoulder, May turned to Peter.  “Would you like me to leave?” Peter hesitated. “I won’t be offended, no matter what you decide.”

Peter smiled sadly at her.  “I think I’d rather talk to Mr. Stark alone.”    


May patted his hand.  “Sure thing, sweetheart.”  She nodded curtly at Mr. Stark as she left the room.  Peter got the feeling that those two had already had words.  He wasn’t looking forward to his turn to face May’s wrath.

The silence fell heavy between them.  Peter geared himself up. Mr. Stark probably wanted an apology.  Peter  _ owed  _ him an apology.  He took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Mr. Stark said quietly, staring at the floor.  Peter let all the air out in an awkward huff. Then man looked up at Peter.  “I mean it, kid. I’m the one who screwed the pooch on this one. What else is new?” he huffed. 

Peter’s eyes widened.  What the heck was he talking about?  “No, no, Mr. Stark, you didn’t do anything wrong, I’m the one-”

“I didn’t do anything  _ wrong? _ ” Mr. Stark asked, incredulously.  “Kid, I did  _ everything  _ wrong.  I messed up the EMP, I failed to brief you properly, I didn’t realize that  _ half your fucking training sessions had been cancelled _ ,” he fumed.  “And to top it all off, I yelled at you.  You were worried about Bruce, and I  _ yelled at you _ ,” he said eyes stricken.    


Peter gaped.  “But...I messed up.  I wasn’t listening to the strategy, I forgot what to do.  I panicked, led the Widow straight to Hawkeye, made us lose.  And then I scared Bruce so bad he had a panic attack,” Peter said, voice breaking.  “Is he okay? I’ve been worried. I heard you guys talking, so I thought he might be fine, but then you were kicking me out, so I wasn’t sure, and I was too much of a coward to stick it out and wait for you to do it in-”

“Kid, kid,  _ Peter _ , hey,” Mr. Stark said, shushing him.  “None of that was your fault. Nobody blames you.  Nobody-aw, fuck it, get back in here, you guys, come tell him,” Mr. Stark said into his watch, and the rest of the team plus Jay filed back into the room, May nowhere in sight.  

“Sent her off to take a nap,” Captain America explained, a soft smile on his face.  “She’s been up all night.”

Peter’s face fell, guilt creeping back in.

Mr. Stark snapped his fingers.  “Hey, no. None of that. Come on, guys, explain.  Bruce?”

Dr. Banner stepped forward, smiling self-deprecatingly.  “You didn’t scare me into a panic attack, Peter. Well,” he amended, “Kind of, technically.  No, no,” he waved his hands in alarm as Peter felt tears spill over his cheeks, “Not like that.  It’s just. After you surprised the Hulk, he swatted at you reflexively, and you just hit the ground so hard.  It scared him, and he thrust control back into my hands like a hot potato, it would have been funny any other time.  But he wanted me in control, so that I could check you out, make sure he didn’t hurt you. But it backfired, because the transition surprised me, and you looked like you were hurt, so I panicked.  I was so scared I had hurt you, Peter,” Dr. Banner explained, wringing his hands anxiously. “And you were just so scared of me, calling out for help like that-”

“I wasn’t scared of you!” Peter exclaimed, horrified.  “I was scared  _ for  _ you, I knew something was wrong.  I was calling for help for you, I didn’t know what to do, I’m so sorry-”

“No Peter, it’s okay,” Dr. Banner said, visibly relieved.  “We’re both alright, I just assumed...with the way the others were keeping you away…”

“I was worried, too,” Mr. Stark, said.  “But unlike the good doctor, here, my first instinct wasn’t panic, it was anger.  Just like the old man.” His mouth puckered wryly. “I was scared you’d gotten hurt, again.  All because of me, because I took away your suit,  _ again _ .  I couldn’t live with that.  So I got angry. And it was all pointed at you, because you were there.  I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s-” Peter started to say, but was interrupted by Captain America.

“I owe you an apology, too, Peter,” the Captain said, blue eyes regretful.  “I blew off your training to look for this guy,” he clapped a hand on Jay’s shoulder, “when it turned out that he really didn’t want to be found.”

“And I went with him,” the Widow said.  “I’m sorry.”

The rest of them turned to look at Hawkeye.  He shrugged. “I was a jerk because I thought you probably shouldn’t be out there,” he explained.  “I’m a father. I know how it is. Couldn’t stop imagining one of my own kids in your place, just because they can shoot just as good as their old man.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.  “But I understand that I can’t stop you, if this really is your choice. It  _ is  _ your choice.  And I should have respected that.  I’m sorry.”

Peter truly didn’t know what to say.  “It’s...but you’re...but I thought you were kicking me out?” he said, voice growing quieter with every word.  “I...I came back, and heard you talking, you said something about ‘what you were going to do with me…’”

Mr. Stark looked stricken.  “Kid, we weren’t talking about  _ kicking you out _ , shit,” he said.  “The opposite, actually.  We were talking about how much we all fucked up, and how we could fix it.”

“But we lost, and it was my fault,” Peter said, his voice small.

“Kid, we wouldn’t kick you out for ‘losing’ your first ever training exercise!” Mr. Stark said emphatically.  “Kid, you did  _ amazing _ .  I was  _ proud  _ of how well you performed under pressure.  So was Steve!” Mr. Stark pointed at Cap.

“But I lost!  I wasn’t paying attention!” Peter protested.

“You were compromised from the start and still managed to evade Nat for a solid five minutes.  Then you accurately judged that you wouldn’t be useful in a fight between her and Clint, and went to join the team member that was outnumbered, the team member who needed you the most,” Steve said, ticking the events off on his fingers.  “Furthermore, you managed to subdue the Hulk, no matter how you accomplished it, which is not something that everyone can say.” Steve smiled warmly. “Just ask Tony about his Hulkbuster suit.”

“Oh God,” Tony muttered, and everyone chuckled, even Jay.  Peter looked over at him curiously. Steve followed his gaze and jumped a little bit.

“Oh, that reminds me,”  Steve’s smile grew into an expression Peter couldn’t quite describe, eyes simultaneously soft and wild with joy.  “Let me introduce you. Peter, this is Bucky. He’s my...well, he was my best friend, growing up.”

“We’ve met,” Jay, or rather, Bucky, said shortly, but his eyes were soft, and he stepped over to shake Peter’s hand, and returned Peter’s smile.  Then he went back to Steve’s side.

Steve rolled is eyes.  “I know that, Buck, I meant properly.”  His face turned serious. “I owe you, Peter, more than you know.  More than I can ever hope to repay. If you hadn’t,” his face crumpled.  “Just, thank you. Thank you for bringing him home.”

Peter basked in the care in the room.  He wanted to enjoy it forever, despite the fatigue tugging at his eyes and limbs.

    


“All right, all right, that’s enough!” May’s stern voice shattered the quiet, and then she was there, hands on her hips.  “What did I say? Now get out, he needs to sleep.”

“And a shower?” Peter asked hopefully, and the team chuckled as they filed out the door again under May’s stern glare.

“Later,” she said, kissing his forehead.  “Now go back to sleep. I love you.”

“Love you too, May,” he said, and May ruffled his hair, then turned out the lights.

 

Alone at last.  This time, when he drifted off, it was with a weight off his chest and a smile on his lips, hopeful that everything would be okay, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was pretty much it! 
> 
> Can I just, say, thank you all so so SO much? I had a blast writing this for you, and interacting with you. Even though y'all guessed my plot twists. ;) I'd also like to thank all the lovely people on the SMBB Slack. I guarantee that without you, this story would just be a couple sentences sitting in my WIP folder. I hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> The short epilogue will be up in a few!


	12. Epilogue: Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fluff and happy times ahead! You've earned it ;)

“Come on, you guys, keep up!” Peter called, rucking his pack higher on his shoulders as he bounded down the trail.

“Jesus, Kid, we don’t  _ all _ have enhanced stamina or whatever,” Mr. Stark huffed, bending over to catch his breath.

Thor boomed out a laugh, and clapped Tony on the shoulder hard enough the man stumbled.  “I thought you said earlier that you would, as you say, ‘show these kids what for,’” he teased.

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes.  “I can  _ guarantee  _ that is not what I said.”

“You so did,” AJ said, shooting the man a smirk as they passed, stepping forward to join Peter at the front of the group.”

Mr. Stark gasped dramatically.  “How dare you, Olivers. I am your benefactor, saving your from the, frankly, tyrannical student loan sharks.  Show some respect.”

AJ tapped their chin.  “I thought Stark Industries was our benefactor.  Hey Jace!” they called back the group. “Last I heard, we all got a Stark Industries scholarship, not a Tony Stark grant, am I right?”

“That’s accurate!” he yelled.

Theo jogged up to Mr. Stark.  “Thank you so much for that, by the way.  It’s life changing, you have no idea how grateful I-”

“I’m sure I do,” Mr. Stark waved a hand dismissively.  Then his face softened. “And there’s no need, I really appreciate what you three did for Peter.”

 

~

 

As soon as Peter woke up, he asked to call some people.  Not the college kids, since he didn’t have their numbers.  But John and Mabel for sure. He was told that they had already been informed that he was home safe, and that he had lost all phone privileges for a solid  _ month _ , mister.  As soon as Peter was un-grounded, they were the first people he called after Ned, letting his friend know he was finally free again.

(Ned had been impressed beyond words at Peter’s experiences.  MJ was just as impressed by the depth of his stupidity. Oh yeah, she figured it out.  Couldn’t resist giving herself away to tell Peter what an idiot he was.)

 

~

 

“I’m with you, Mr. Stark,” Ned panted, jogging to catch up to the man and the god.  “Mr. Thor, sir, can I just say that it is  _ awesome  _ to finally meet you in person, sir.”

“ _ Ned _ ,” Peter groaned, but ruined it with laughter.  MJ punched Peter on the shoulder. “Like you didn’t do the same thing the first time you met him,” she sniffed.

 

~

 

One of the first people Peter had called was Emily.  She was  _ ecstatic _ , told him all about her new school, how her new school bus was a  _ jet  _ and she got to learn about cool stuff  _ all day long _ instead of having to wait until she got home.  The jet was an experiment initiative put together by Pepper Potts, the CEO of SI herself.  It collected her and a bunch of other students from rural areas and dropped them off at a specialized school in Philly, at no cost to their families.   


“We’re working on a more environmentally-friendly solution,” Pepper had told Peter in passing at one point.  Because this was his life, apparently he was one of the people who talked to Pepper Potts  _ in passing.   
_

John had thanked him profusely for it, telling him how much happier Emily was now, after Peter reassured him that everything was fine now.  John and Aunt May were currently working together to schedule a time when Peter and Emily could meet up again.  Peter wanted to show her his new lab space.  Emily wanted to show Peter hers.  And their new greenhouse.   


And the biker ladies...well.  He and Aunt May met them for lunch every couple of months.  That first meeting was pretty emotional. Mabel was happy to get her cell phone back (long story, don’t ask) and yell at Peter for worrying her, Nora hugged Peter too many times, and Sandy wanted to hear how school was going.  He was happy to oblige.

 

~ 

 

“Come on, Peter!” May laughed, jolting him out of his reverie.  “I thought you were practically an expert on hiking now?” she teased.

Peter grinned, and breathed in the scent of wet earth and budding trees and fresh air.  He let it out with a sigh, shoulders relaxed, and head held high. Then he dashed through the trees to catch up with the people he loved, so they could all have fun.  Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again, all!
> 
> The good news for people wanting to hear this from the Avengers' POV; I accidentally plotted the whole thing trying to figure out where everyone's head would be for chapter 11, so the plot's there! Might take me a while to get it done, though. 
> 
> In the meantime, please check out the other awesome fics that are about to be posted for the SMBB, and already were! That's what I'll be doing ;)
> 
> Also, please check out the SpiderVerse Big Bang, and consider joining! See below for info!
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> ~flighty

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be posting this in its entirety over the course of the next week, probably one act per day, but each one may have multiple chapters. I have five acts planned in all, plus a short epilogue. I'll put a note in the beginning if I post more than one per day. I will also be updating tags as I go, so please watch those if you're concerned. 
> 
> This is my submission for the Spider-Man Big Bang, which has been renamed to the Spider-Verse Big Bang for this round. It's open to any fic 10k words or over featuring any character from any of the MANY Spider-Verses out there. You want to write about Spider Knight? Awesome! Miles Morales? Sweet! Gwen Stacy? Super! Silk? You betcha. Dr. Connor or Michelle Jones or Ned with nary a Spider-Person in sight? Can't wait to see what you come up with! 
> 
> Sign-ups are open right now, through April 1st for authors, and May 10th for all other participants. Come join us! You can find us on tumblr at spiderversebigbang.
> 
> ***UPDATE: Sign ups for authors have been extended to APRIL 12th, 2019!!! We are especially in need of authors, so please, tell your friends that might be interested, and come join the fun! Right now, we have weekly sentence prompts and a bang-wide collaborative weekly fic that are both open to participants of all types.****


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